


The Conductor

by ladyiisaka



Category: Death Note
Genre: F/M, Original Character-centric, POV Original Character, POV Original Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-08-12 07:22:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 35
Words: 177,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7925779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyiisaka/pseuds/ladyiisaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The life of Eraldo Coil, told in five parts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1.1: Irregulars

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for clicking on my story! This will be divided into five separate parts within the same work. Most of the first draft is complete, so expect regular updates. Hope you enjoy it! 
> 
> As a point of clarification, all references to the original Death Note story will be based on the manga continuity, rather than the anime or films.
> 
> Death Note (c) 2003 Ohba Tsugumi and Obata Takeshi. Another Note: The Los Angeles BB Murder Cases (c) 2006 Nisio Isin. All rights reserved.

**Note 1: Eliminate the Impossible**

-

**Chapter 1: Irregulars**

-January 6th, 1991-

There was a knife gleaming on top of the high shelf in the janitor’s closet, just barely visible in the dark and from the floor.  I wasn’t sure why a janitor would need a knife at all, let alone in an embassy.  Such a thing would never have been heard of back home.  Maybe it was for cutting through the plastic in the packs of cleaning solution, or maybe it was there in case he needed to open a package.  Or maybe for protection, in case something bad ever happened, the way it had happened today.  A lot of good the knife had done us, sitting forgotten on that shelf.

Still, whatever its purpose was, I was glad it was there.  Since I was too small to reach the high shelf without an adult, I pushed together small, medium, and large cardboard boxes to make a sort of staircase up to the top of the cleaning cart, which I made sure to lock in place so it wouldn’t accidentally roll out from under me.  Even then, my hand didn’t quite reach.  If I stood on my Sherlock book, I would’ve had just enough height to grab the knife, but there was no way I’d get the cover dirty.  I had to settle for standing on tiptoe, holding onto the wall for support, and gripping the knife by the blade between two fingers.  I couldn’t quite get a grip on it, and the knife fell out of my hand and onto the floor with a clatter, slicing open one finger on the way down.

I stood perfectly still, without crying out.  How loud had that knife been when it hit the floor? Had anyone heard it? Was there anyone outside left to hear it? I couldn’t hear any footsteps coming this way, so after a minute passed, I scrambled to the floor again, grabbed the knife, and triple-checked that the door was indeed locked.  Then I climbed inside the largest cardboard box and hugged my knees to my chest, the knife tucked into my lap.  My finger was still bleeding, so I took out the hair ribbon Papa had bought me in Piccadilly and wrapped it around the wound till the pink fabric turned red.

There was a clock somewhere on the wall – I could hear it ticking – but I didn’t dare turn on the light to read it.  The only method I had of passing time was reading my Sherlock book, over and over again.  It was the complete canon, all 60 stories, almost too big for me to carry.  Cover to cover, it took me about three hours to read, something that had always amazed my father.  Thinking of this, I had to bite my lip to keep from crying.  _Papa…_

Outside, I could hear voices.  It sounded like the police had just arrived and were starting their investigation.  All the voices were speaking English with the broad accent of the language’s native land.  There were no clipped, struggling Japanese imitations among them; the interpreters had all been killed.  Perhaps all the Japanese had been killed, except for me.  For a moment, I thought about climbing out of the box, running out of the closet, and presenting myself to the police officers.  _I’m here! Save me! Tell me what I should do now!_

But that would not be a smart idea.  There was no way of knowing if it really was the police out there.  It could have been the masked men coming back to make sure there were no survivors.  And whoever they were, they didn’t like my father – they’d shot him first.  If I, his only child, went before them, then the best I could hope for was being taken as a hostage for whatever endgame they were moving toward.  More likely, they would kill me.  So I shrank tighter against the wall of the box, clutched the knife in one hand, opened the book with one-handed difficulty, turned on my portable reading light (too feeble to be seen from outside), and began to read.  The noise of the outside world gradually faded away, and as always I forgot the real world as I drifted easily into the world of the story.  _In the year 1878 I took my degree of Doctor of Medicine of the University of London…_

I’d gone through the whole book twice and was just starting on a third cycle when I was startled by a loud, all-too-nearby noise.  The door was shaking, the knob twisting left and right – someone was trying to get in.  I turned off the light and shoved both it and the book aside.  Then I climbed out of the box and stood, ready to flee, in the center of the closet, knife brandished toward the door.  I’d never stabbed someone before, never even held a knife in my hand – maybe I wouldn’t be able to do it.  Would it be better to imitate my s _amurai_ ancestors and turn the knife on myself before the enemy could reach me?

A single teardrop dripped onto the knife’s shaking blade.  I rubbed my eyes with my free hand, unable to keep myself from sniveling.

The door stopped shaking, and for a moment, all was quiet.  Then I heard the click of a tumbler and saw the lock slowly snap back into place.  They’d found the key.  As the knob began turning again, I took a deep breath and braced myself to run.  Statistically speaking, my survival was next to impossible.  How could a little girl hope to prevail against grown men? But maybe I would get lucky.  Maybe I could take one of them with me, and so avenge my father.  Maybe, in dying, I could have justice.

The door opened, and light flooded the closet.  Blinded, I closed my streaming eyes but still charged forward, swinging the knife wildly.  Two heavy weights, perhaps hands, shoved against my shoulders, sending jolts of pain jarring down my arms and making me drop the knife.  The hands dropped from my shoulders to my forearms, locking them rigidly against my torso.  My legs were still free, but my assailant’s grip was as strong as handcuffs, and no matter how hard I struggled, I couldn’t escape it.

Then I heard a soothing voice speaking English.  “Hush, sweetheart, don’t be afraid.  I won’t hurt you, I promise.”

I froze, struck by the tenderness in his voice.  Cautiously, I opened my eyes and, after growing used to the dazzling light from the hall, saw that my captor was a middle-aged Englishman, silver-haired and bespectacled.  His back had a slight stoop to it, and every bit of exposed skin was wrinkled with age, which deepened and multiplied as he smiled at me.  Compared to his appearance, the strength with which he kept me immobile seemed laughable and unnatural.  He must have had the strength of an _oni_ in his youth.

“There we go,” he said as he saw me calm down.  “Everything will be all right now.  My name is Quillish Wammy, and I’m going to look after you.”

I tensed up again.  _Quillish Wammy!_ The world-famous inventor, the orphan master, and Papa’s old friend.  He was the reason I’d gone with Papa to England in the first place – he wanted to give me a test, to see if I could qualify for his special boarding school.  I looked on him with mingled fear and awe.

Cautiously, Wammy lowered his arms and freed me.  I scrambled backwards on instinct, rubbing one at a time the sore spots where he’d grabbed me, but I didn’t run away.  He smiled again, and then turned to look over his shoulder.  “Good show, my boy.  I had no idea she was even in here.”

“Me neither.  But if there were any survivors, this would be the most logical place for them to hide.  Assuming logic hadn’t abandoned them in their fear, of course.”

Wammy winced.  “Tact, my boy, tact…”

A small, misshapen figure shuffled around the older man and into the closet.  It took me a moment to realize that it was a boy, maybe my age, maybe English, maybe not.  He looked misshapen because his back was so curved that he was bent nearly double.  It didn’t look like it was because of any sort of impairment; he was walking like that simply because he wanted to.  The expression on his face was blank, like a statue’s.  He was wearing faded blue jeans, dirty sneakers, and a long-sleeved white shirt, which perfectly matched his sickly complexion.  He had a shock of messy black hair and equally black circles under his eyes.  The eyes themselves were wide and dark, and they seemed to look through me rather than at me.  As I stared back, I had the sense of a fathomless depth, like I was looking into a pair of black holes.  The sensation was familiar; it was the same one I fancied having when I saw my own reflection. 

The boy lifted a hand to his mouth, and one finger rested vertically across the center of his lips.  He craned his neck forward, closely observing me.  “Hello,” he said in English.  I continued staring at him silently, suddenly uncomfortable with the scrutiny.  In response, he tilted his head to the side in a motion that reminded me of the neighbors’ puppy back home.  He tried again.  “ _Konnichiwa_.”

Realizing he was expecting an answer, I replied in the same language.  “Who are you?”

He frowned and tilted his head to the other side.  The question seemed to have confused him.  “No one, really,” he answered at last.  “What about you?”

“…Hasegawa Chie,” I answered reluctantly.  If he was with Papa’s friend, then there probably wasn’t any danger in telling him.  Still, asking my name without giving his own was weird. 

Wammy had been following the conversation with pursed lips and a furrowed brow – it looked like he couldn’t speak Japanese.  When I said my name, though, he jumped in surprise.  “Hasegawa? Chie?” he repeated.  “You can’t – oh, my dear, don’t tell me you’re Akito’s daughter.”

At the sound of my father’s name, I could feel tears start to well up again, and I furiously rubbed at my eyes.  “Papa,” I couldn’t help but whimper. 

Wammy lunged for me again, but this time to hug me rather than stop me.  His moustache scratched against my face.  “You poor thing,” he said in a voice trembling from tears.  “Oh, you poor thing…” I bit my lip and tried not to cry.  Papa wouldn’t have wanted me to.  Beside us, the boy looked at us as though we were a scene from a TV drama, distant and impersonal. 

Before I could protest, Wammy moved out of the embrace and hoisted me up with little effort.  “Let’s get you to a hospital.  The rest can come later.”  He turned and started to walk out of the closet.

“N-No, wait!” I said, remembering just in time.  I wiggled around and reached over his shoulder toward my earlier hiding place.  “My book…!”

Wammy stopped, uncomprehending my panicked and automatic Japanese.  Before I could clarify, the boy shuffled over to the box and lifted the heavy volume between his thumb and index finger.  He, too, was stronger than he looked.  “This one?” I nodded.

“Let me see that, please,” Wammy said to the boy, who obediently brought it over for a closer look.  The older man squinted at it through his thick glasses.  “ _The Complete Sherlock Holmes_ …my goodness, you can read this whole thing by yourself at your age? That’s amazing!” I smiled shyly beneath his praise.

The boy was less impressed.  “The ambassador’s daughter is a candidate for your school, right? It’s only natural that she should read something like this.  I’m surprised it isn’t anything more complicated.”

“That’s a very rude thing to say, even if she can’t understand it.”

“She can understand it.  The book is written in English.”

Wammy started, then leaned in to examine the exposed page proffered by the boy (who was now holding the open book between both thumbs and index fingers, one set at each cover).  “…So it is.”  He smiled wanly at me.  “Excuse me, my dear.  I didn’t realize.”

“It’s okay,” I said in English.  “I didn’t tell you, either.  Sorry.”

“If she’s a candidate, then she should know at least one foreign language,” the boy piped up, still in that flat monotone.  “I’m surprised you didn’t guess that, Mr. Wammy.”

Wammy huffed impatiently.  “Yes, well, I’m not as smart as you, my boy.  Nor as you, it seems,” he added, winking at me.  “Now then, business later.  Hospital now.”

They brought me through the embassy, Wammy pressing my head against his shoulder to block my vision as we passed the remains of the carnage.  He couldn’t block out the smell of blood and decay, and I had to hold my breath until I felt cool air on my face again.  It had been morning when the gunmen came; now the sun was setting, and the first stars were twinkling overhead.  We ducked under the police tape and made our way around the block, where a black car had been parked inconspicuously.  The boy climbed into the backseat, and rather than sitting normally, he crouched with his feet flat and his knees against his chest, thumb in his mouth.  Wammy huffed again, but said nothing as he deposited me beside him and helped me with my seatbelt. 

As promised, they brought me to the nearest hospital.  Besides my cut finger, I wasn’t hurt, but the nurses said I was dehydrated and hungry, neither of which I’d noticed.  So they bandaged my finger, stuck an IV needle in my arm, and gave me some horrible soup and stale gelatin to force down.  Then they put me to bed in a spare room, gave me some more medicine, and turned off the lights, with only the beeping hospital equipment to keep me company.  Only then, by myself and with the fear and adrenaline fading, did I let myself cry for my dead Papa until I fell asleep. 

I’d expected to have nightmares, but I ended up sleeping deeply and dreamlessly, probably because of that medicine.  When I woke up, the sun was filtering through the gap in the curtains.  Almost as soon as I sat up, a nurse rushed in, carrying a tray of toast and porridge.  She arranged it carefully on my bed and told me that Mr. Wammy would come to fetch me in a little while, and to try and rest a bit more until then.  After she left, I tried to choke down the breakfast, but I had no appetite.  There was a little TV attached to the ceiling, and after a bit of searching, I found the remote in the bottom drawer of my nightstand.  After a minute of fumbling, I found the power button and turned on the TV.

It was set to a news channel, and they were talking about the attack.  “Terror Attack on the Japanese Embassy, Ambassador Dead,” the banner proclaimed.  Two talking heads speculated about the identity of the ten masked men and what their motive was.  They said that all 282 staff and visitors in the embassy that morning had died, and that all the bodies had been recovered.  I hadn’t signed in when Papa and I arrived; no one realized that I had been there.  No one knew where I was or what had happened to me.  My family would be worried.

Except I didn’t have a family anymore.  Mama was dead before I met her, _Ojii-chan_ and _Obaa-chan_ were dead, and now Papa was dead, too.  I had no brothers or sisters, or aunts or uncles.  I was all alone.  Before, when Papa had said I was going to Wammy’s school, I’d argued with him, saying that the other students went because they were orphans and I was not an orphan.  Now I was.  I swallowed thickly, feeling a lump in my throat and the toast flip over in my stomach.

All of a sudden, the TV flickered off.  Without my noticing, Wammy had entered the room, walked over to my bedside, and pressed the power button on the remote.  “You shouldn’t be watching that, dear,” he scolded gently as he put the remote in the drawer of the nightstand.  The drawer had no lock; I would be able to get to it again easily once he left. 

“I was there, I know what happened.  I wanted to see if they knew _why_ it happened.”  Suddenly feeling cold, I drew the blankets up to my chin with shaking hands. 

Wammy perched on the edge of my bed, ignoring the chair on the far wall.  He had a look of sympathy on his face, but I tensed up and inched backwards, afraid he was going to offer condolences.  I didn’t want condolences, didn’t want to hear how sorry he was or what a tragedy it was.  I knew it was a tragedy.  What I didn’t know was why it had happened, and sympathy would tell me nothing.

Although, come to think of it, he and Papa were friends.  He must have been mourning his death, too.  If he said “sorry for your loss,” he would mean it, because it would be his loss, too.  I inched back to my original position, watching him.

Suddenly, I realized that there was something missing.  “Where’s that kid?” I asked, looking around in case he was hiding somewhere.

Wammy jumped, startled out of his thoughts.  “Kid? Who – oh, yes.  Him.”  The sympathetic expression turned funny, but I couldn’t interpret exactly what it meant.  “He couldn’t be here today.  But there _is_ someone with me who would like to talk with you.  About yesterday.”

I tensed up again.  “The police?” I didn’t want to talk to anyone about what happened.  It wouldn’t change anything, before or after.  Besides, what did the police know? The ones in my hometown were so stupid that they couldn’t catch the burglars who killed my grandparents, even though all those clues were there.  That window lock was broken by a left-handed man, and the boot-prints in the yard were left by a short fat man and a tall thin man; anybody could see it if they bothered to look.  But when I tried to tell the police, they just said I had an overactive imagination and to let the grown-ups do their jobs.  Lestrade and Gregson were geniuses compared to them.

He started to shake his head, but then paused and thought.  “Well, sort of.  He’s a detective, but he doesn’t work for the state.  He’s _very_ good at his job, though – he’s solved cases all over the world, cases that no one else can solve.  He wants to find the men who did this, so he can give you the answers you want.”

I glanced toward the top of nightstand again, where my Sherlock book was resting.  A detective…yeah, maybe he could do something.  Detectives were smarter than regular police, and this one sounded especially smart.  Maybe he’d listen to me.  And if not…well, it wasn’t like I’d be worse off than I was right now.  Wammy would be happier, at least.  So I nodded and asked if he was outside waiting.

“No, he’s right here with me.”  Then he reached into his black bag and pulled out a clunky mobile phone.  He dialed a number and put the phone to his ear.  After a few seconds, he said, “She’s ready for you.”  He held out the phone to me with a smile.  I took it, needing both hands to hold it, and held it up to my own ear, suddenly nervous.

For a few seconds, nothing happened, and I was afraid I had accidentally hit the wrong button and hung up on him.  Then a voice spoke on the other end, and I jumped and squeaked in surprise.  It wasn’t the presence of the voice that startled me – I’d talked on plenty of phones before – but the voice itself.  It was artificial – no, a human voice made to _sound_ artificial, tinny and flat like a robot’s.  A disguise, I realized, to prevent me from recognizing him.  _In that case, he’s someone I know, right…?_

“Hasegawa Chie,” the voice said without a greeting.  “I am L.”

I looked over at Wammy, who nodded in encouragement.  “L?” I echoed.  “L what?”

“L nothing.  It’s my name.  What’s so funny?”

In spite of myself, I’d let out a little snort.  “O-Oh, sorry.”  When he asked again, I added, “It’s just – it’s not your name, is it? It’s just a letter.”

“It’s _my_ letter.”  The voice sounded a little peeved through its filter.

“Sorry,” I said again.

“Your name is silly, too, you know.”

I bristled.  “What’s wrong with it?”

Before he could answer, Wammy cleared his throat rather loudly, so that the detective could hear over the phone.  “Perhaps we should carry on with the task at hand?” he said sternly, like he was breaking up a playground squabble.  I ducked my head in apology. 

The detective spoke again, all trace of emotion gone.  “Hasegawa Chie, please tell me everything you experienced during yesterday’s incident.”

“O-Okay…where should I start?”

“The beginning.”

I did as he asked and began with the moment I’d entered the embassy, one hand clutching my father’s and the other arm hugging my book to my chest.  Papa had signed us in (or just him; they must not have known I was there, judging by the fact that the news didn’t mention me) and sent me over to a chair in the lobby while he went to a meeting.  I read my book and waited.  Every once in a while, one of the staff would come over and talk to me, mostly to exclaim how clever I was for reading such a big book at my age, and in English, too! Others, Papa’s friends and the people who worked for him specifically, wished me a happy birthday – I’d turned nine yesterday.  I spoke politely with them, but I wanted to read, not talk, so the conversations ended quickly.  I wouldn’t have known if there was anyone in the lobby who shouldn’t have been there, since I didn’t know all of the staff and was too busy reading to look up anyway.

After about an hour and a half, Papa had come back from his meeting to fetch me.  He’d canceled his afternoon session, he said, so he could spend time with me on my birthday.  This was my first time in London, so we could do whatever I wanted.  Of course, I asked him if we could go to Baker Street. 

That was when the men came from further inside the embassy.

“You are certain they were all men?” L asked.

I nodded, then remembered he couldn’t see me and said, “Yes.  Their clothes weren’t loose and they weren’t wearing coats or anything, so I could tell easily.”

“What were they wearing?”

“Ski masks.  Black jeans, black sweaters, workman’s boots.  All the same kinds.  Not great material or anything – just stuff you’d find in a department store.”

“I see.  How many were there?”

“Six.  Five of them were really tall and muscular, and one was short and fat.  He’s the only one who spoke, so I think he was the leader.  He –” I broke off and swallowed, feeling my eyes start to water.  “– he’s the one who shot my father.”

“What did he say?” L asked.

I had to put down the phone and rub my eyes before I could answer.  “‘Vengeance for the Valkyries.’  He said it in Japanese, but he was speaking with an accent.  Maybe German, I don’t know.”  I hesitated.  “The Valkyries did those bombings in Winchester three years ago, right? The Winchester Mad Bombings?”  Over three hundred people had died in those bombings, including twenty-eight Japanese citizens.  Papa had spent a lot of time working to catch the culprits, and he had even obtained the warrant needed to search the house of the man who turned out to be the ringleader.

“Correct,” L answered.  “And they were German, you probably recall.  After the leader said this, what did he do?”

He shot Papa.  And his friends shot everyone else.  I ran away, and they shot at me, but they missed.  They chased me, but I knew the embassy pretty well after being there for a week, so I lost them and hid in a janitor’s closet.  And then Wammy and that weird kid found me.

“Did you see what sort of guns they had?”

Wammy sputtered and, with a gentle apology, took the phone from me.  “L, she’s _nine years old_.”

I strained my ears to catch the reply.  “She has also proven to be very observant thus far.”

“What would a nine-year-old girl know about guns?”

“They had assault rifles,” I said, raising my voice so L could hear me.  “Tokarevs.  My grandpa used to keep one on the wall.  He used it in the war.”

Wammy sniffed in distaste, but handed the phone back to me.  “Unusual,” L was saying, “that sympathizers of a German terrorist group should use Russian weapons.  Last I heard, the two countries were not on friendly terms.”

I hadn’t thought of that.  “They don’t have to be friendly to use each other’s weapons, though.”

“True enough.  Still, the media is interpreting the actions of these six men as a terrorist attack, retaliation against Hasegawa Akito for the part he played in bringing the Valkyries to justice.  Would you consider that a valid assessment?”

Wammy sputtered again and held out his hand for the phone, but I drew back and tightened my own grip.  “No.  There was a Russian woman who lived next to me in Tokyo – this guy sounded sort of like her, but not exactly like her.  Not like he was from a different region, either – like he was faking it.  And his Japanese was really good.  And they came in through the back way and didn’t start shooting till they reached the lobby.  Everyone in Japan was really upset when those people died at Winchester – no Japanese person would let in the bombers’ friends.  _And_ Papa was killed first, and just by the leader.”  I took a deep breath.  “Maybe they just wanted us to think they were friends with the Valkyries.”

I didn’t feel like crying anymore.  That feeling of adrenaline I’d had when that weird kid opened the closet door was coming back.  My mind was running on autopilot, moving from step to step, running on logic rather than emotion.  It was like we were talking about someone else’s Papa, not mine.  Was this what being a detective was like? Did Sherlock Holmes’ mind work like this – and for that matter, did L’s?

“Interesting.  To what end? They did attack on embassy, so perhaps their endgame was a different sort of international incident.  Or perhaps the motives were a little more plebian.”  He paused a moment, like he was thinking.  “You are very intelligent, Hasegawa Chie,” he said at last.  “I have no doubt that you shall thrive in Quillish Wammy’s school.”

“I-Is that where I’m going?” I said.  Wammy nodded, smiling. 

“Unless you have a better idea.  As I understand it, you have no living relatives to take you in, and your original purpose in coming to London was to take an entrance exam for the school.” 

I wondered how he knew all that.  “But nothing was decided yet.  I still have to take the test, right? What if I don’t pass?”

“That won’t matter,” Wammy said loudly and quickly.  “You’ll always have a home with me.”  Hearing that, my eyes started to water again.  Why was he being so nice? I barely knew him.  Just because he was friends with Papa, or was he really that nice?

“You’ll pass,” L said with certainty.  When the voice spoke again, something in it changed.  There was some sort of emotion there now, but I couldn’t quite read it.  Confidence? Determination? Or just arrogance? “I will definitely catch the culprits for you, Hasegawa Chie.  You may rest assured that they will find justice.”

 _Justice_ …like Professor Moriarty and all the other bad guys.  This detective was going to do what I couldn’t, was going to make everything right again.  And he was doing it for me.  “Th-Thank you,” I stammered, really crying now.

He was quiet a while, listening to my snuffling.  “This is the first time I’ve spoken to a client,” he mused.  “I’ve never been thanked by them before.  I’m not sure I did anything to deserve it.”

“You did.  And you will, right? You’ll catch them.”

“I will.  I promise.”


	2. 1.2: The House

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death Note (c) 2003 Ohba Tsugumi and Obata Takeshi. Another Note: The Los Angeles BB Murder Cases (c) 2006 Nisio Isin. All rights reserved.

**Chapter 2: The House**

-January 7th, 1991-

The sun was setting by the time we reached Winchester.  The trip only took about ninety minutes, but there was the hospital paperwork to sort out, plus fetching all my things from Papa’s English house and supplementing my vacationer’s meager possessions with more permanent ones.  By the time we finally reached city limits, I was exhausted by the long day today and the even longer day yesterday.

Winchester was different than London.  It seemed more close and snug.  The buildings had some stone and brick mixed in with the steel and concrete, and they didn’t go up quite so high.  The biggest building was the cathedral and part of a palace built in the eleventh century.  Instead of asphalt, many of the roads were cobblestoned.  There were more trees and more parks.  The air seemed fresher here, and there were more smiles on the passersby’s faces.  London had been noisy and exciting, but this felt more like my Japanese home.

Our destination was not the cathedral, but what looked like a smaller church, more modern-looking and topped with a broad bell-tower which featured a single narrow window.  It was gated, and as the car pulled up, I noticed the sign attached to the fence that proclaimed the church was not a church at all, but WAMMY’S HOUSE.  That was the chain of Quillish Wammy’s orphanages, and this, the Winchester one, was the first and most esteemed of that chain.  About twenty children were in the yard beyond the gate, playing ball or chasing each other or simply reading on the front steps.  As Mr. Wammy parked the car and got out, they all squealed with delight and rushed to the gate, grasping the bars and shouting cries of welcome.  I got the sudden image of prison bars and shuddered, but obediently followed Mr. Wammy’s lead and exited the car. 

The welcomes died down as twenty pairs of eyes locked onto me.  I fidgeted, uncomfortable with the attention.  “Look! A new face!” a little girl with blonde pigtails exclaimed, pointing at me like there was any possibility of being mistaken.

“What’s your name?” a boy’s voice shouted from the back.

“Are you coming to live with us?” another boy added solemnly.

Mr. Wammy answered for me.  “Yes, Arthur, this young lady is your new sister.  She’s a candidate for the Program, so I can’t tell you her name just yet.  For now, just call her C.”  There was an outcry of protests at this.

I glanced up at him.  “You said Arthur’s name,” I said, instinctively lowering my voice.  “Does he not go to your school?”

He matched my undertone, sparking more curious protests from the crowd of children.  “No, dear.  In fact, none of these children do – you’re only the third candidate for the Program.  Should you not pass the entrance exam, you’ll join these children in the normal program, so you don’t need to worry.  No one will be tossing you out on the streets.”

That was a relief, but I wasn’t entirely relaxed.  “Why can’t you tell them my name?”

“Both your classmates go by aliases – only I know their real names.  It’s for the students’ safety, you see.”  Before I could ask what he meant, he stepped away, pulled a golden key out of his pocket, and unlocked the gate.  Then he put the key back in his pocket, turned, and held out his hand to me with a smile.  “Come along, dear.  Welcome to your new home.”  Shyly, I took his hand and let him lead me through the gate. 

The children had parted to make room for the swinging gate, but as soon as I was inside, they charged at me, nearly knocking over Old Mr. Wammy.  For a split second, I was afraid they would attack me, but their eager shouts explained their intent.  “Cuddles! Cuddles!” Sure enough, all twenty of them crowded around me in an enormous group hug, with me crushed at the center.  I stiffened, hardly daring (or able) to move or breathe, afraid of what they would do to me.  I was the smartest kid at my old school and didn’t hide it, so I had had lots of bullies to torment me and no friends to stick up for me.

The child closest to me, the pigtailed girl, smiled at me and squeezed me tighter.  “It’s okay.  Mr. Wammy said you’re our sister now, so you don’t have to be sad about your mommy or daddy anymore.  We’ll be your family.”  There was a chorus of agreement, and I remembered that all these children were orphans.  Their kindness, and the reminder of my own situation and sullenness compared to their openness, made me start to tear up yet again, and I leaned willingly into their embraces.

At last, having left me to the others’ devices as he fetched some of my bags, Mr. Wammy managed to take control again.  “That’s enough for now, children.  C’s had a rough day, so let’s give her a little space, shall we?” They dispersed with halfhearted protests and went back to their games, leaving me swaying and teary.  Mr. Wammy had been holding a bag in each hand; now he shifted one under the opposite arm, so that he could take my hand again.  He squeezed it, and I returned the gesture after only a moment’s hesitation. 

As we approached the front door, I stopped short.  The hair on the back of my neck was standing up, and my stomach was flipping over with anxiety.  The children were all absorbed in their games again, but there was no doubt about it – someone was watching me.  With no obvious culprit in the yard, I glanced up at the bell-tower.  Was it my imagination, or was there movement at the window?

Mr. Wammy’s loud cough brought me back down to earth.  “That reminds me, dear.  Wammy’s House is your home, so you can go to any room you like freely – _except_ for that tower.  I’m afraid the floor is corroding and the structure is growing rotten, so it’s not safe to play up there.  It would be a long way down if the floorboards break.  Promise me you won’t go up there, all right?”

I gave him my word, but I couldn’t resist looking up once more.  There was nothing in the window.

-

Mr. Wammy brought me and my things up to the third floor (of three) and to a long room with six beds lining the wall.  Only one bed had been made, and there were no personal items on any of the nightstands; it looked like I was the only one living here for the moment.  The Program kids and the other kids were probably being housed separately, and since I was alone, my two classmates must have been boys.

With help from my new caretaker, I arranged my few possessions to my liking beneath my bed and in my little wardrobe, and then perched on the edge of my new bed, not sure what to do next.  The full force of my situation was only just hitting me: not only did I not have Papa anymore, but I couldn’t go home, either.  I’d never go to my school or sleep in my own bed or visit my town’s library again.  I’d have to learn how to be an English girl.  I’d have to learn how to _exist_ again – everyone thought I was dead, if they even cared to think about me.  I was like Sherlock Holmes after Reichenbach, taking a new identity to escape from Moriarty’s vengeful henchmen.  Only Sherlock had the hope that he could go home to Baker Street one day, could see Dr. Watson and Mrs. Hudson and his brother and all the rest.  I didn’t have anything.  I didn’t even have a name anymore.

“When can I take the test?” I asked, latching onto Papa’s last task to care for my future.

Mr. Wammy looked surprised.  “W-Well…whenever you want, I suppose.  But wouldn’t like a few days to yourself, just to get yourself settled? No one’s rushing you – there’s plenty of time.”

“Please, Mr. Wammy, I’d like to take it as soon as possible.”  Tests were normal.  Tests were a part of life.  I was good at tests.  I always got the gold flower for the highest marks.

He still looked concerned, but he agreed readily enough and went to go tell the proctor.  Left alone, I sat perfectly still, too upset to read and too embarrassed to seek out any other children.

As it turned out, they sought out me.  No more than a minute after Mr. Wammy had left, the door slowly creaked open again, and two little faces peered through the small gap between the door and the frame.  They were both boys, one about my age and one a few years older.  They were both dark-skinned, the older one Middle Eastern and the younger one a Latino.  The older one was tall, skinny, and had a mole beneath his left eye; the younger one was short, pudgy, and wore thick-rimmed glasses that were just a mite too big for him. 

“Who are you?” I blurted out as soon as I saw them.

They took that as an invitation and scampered through the door, the older one shutting it behind them with a snap.  “That depends,” the younger boy said.  “Are you going to be in the Program or not?”

The older boy rolled his eyes.  “That doesn’t matter, stupid.  We can’t tell her our names either way, just find out hers.”  

The younger boy bristled.  “Don’t call me stupid! You couldn’t find out her real name unless she told you!”

“What, and you could? I scored higher than you, remember? If I can’t do it, you can’t do it.”

Before the younger boy could retort, I quickly piped up.  “I need to take the test, but Mr. Wammy thinks I’ll be accepted into the – the Program.”  After a second’s careful reminder, I added, “I’m C.”

The boys stared at me, as if they’d forgotten in their quarrel that I was there.  The younger boy looked up at some point over my head and then giggled, pushing his glasses up his nose.  The older one frowned.  “Does your name start with C, or did they just give you that letter?”

“It starts with C,” the younger one guessed, and giggled again.  His fellow elbowed him, and I was quick to confirm this nugget of information (without fully disclosing my name) before a fight could break out in full. 

“Really,” the older one said.  “I thought it didn’t matter what your old name was, they just wanted to go in order.”

“No reason they’d do that,” the younger boy countered.  “They would’ve started with L anyway, right? If they were going in order, they’d have called you M.”

My head was spinning as it tried to take in all this information at once.  I started with the most immediate.  “So you two…you’re called A and B, right?” Otherwise, they would not have mistaken a third person called C for an arbitrary and chronological moniker. 

They were indeed – the older A, and the younger B.  A had been at Wammy’s House ten years after his parents died in a fire, but he had only transitioned to the Program last year.  B, meanwhile, had entered the Program immediately upon arrival six months ago, after his mother was hit by a train.  Neither of them were English natives and had been transferred to the Winchester branch of the House from smaller satellite Houses after Mr. Wammy got wind of their intellects.  Reflecting their aliases, A had the better test scores out of the two, but just from speaking with them a few minutes, it was clear to see that both of them were certified geniuses.  Not just that – it sounded like they were smarter than me.  This was the first time I had ever not been the smartest person in the room, and I had to admit, it put me off a little. 

As I was giving them a vague outline of my own history (saying nothing about the manner of my father’s death, only that it was recent), B’s eyes shifted to my Sherlock book, which I’d left on the nightstand.  He had very unusual eyes – big and dark, like two little solar eclipses, and usually they were squinting past the thick lenses of his glasses, so I couldn’t see the whites at all.  To be honest, they were a little creepy.  “That’s a detective book,” he observed, then looked at me with a smile full of crooked teeth.  He needed braces.  “You like detectives?”

I nodded.  “I like that one.  He’s smarter than everyone else he knows, but he still has a friend and he always catches the bad guys.”  Without realizing it, I’d braced myself, preparing for them to make fun of me like the others always did.  The book was old, it was boring, it was stupid.  No one understood why it was so appealing to someone like me.

To my surprise, though, they both nodded, though B still had a rather unsettling grin.  “Yeah, he’s a good read,” A agreed, nodding at the book.  “Some of those cases are pretty predictable, but they’re not bad for 1890-whatever.  And he writes pretty well, too.”

“You must be happy,” B said almost before A had finished talking, “since you get to be part of the Program and you like detectives so much.”

I frowned at him.  “What do detectives have to do with it?” And why would I be happy about living in an orphanage, exclusive school or not?

They gaped at me like I’d just grown a second head.  “ _Everything_ ,” A said in a tone one would use with a very small child or a particularly stupid adult.  “What d’you think the whole thing’s _for_?”

“I-Isn’t it a school?”

“Well, yeah, sort of.  But it’s sort of…I don’t know, like a trade school.  Only you’re not working with your hands, you’re working with your head.”

“O-Okay…and the trade is being a detective?”

“Being _the_ detective,” B corrected.  His eyes had grown blessedly wide with wonder, so they looked normal again.  “They’re training us to be the next L.”

“You _do_ know who L is, right?” A added suspiciously. 

With some reluctance, I explained that L had agreed to solve my father’s murder case, and had interviewed me, a witness, just that morning.  They could have gleaned my identity easily from that information, but fortunately, they were too distracted by the fact that I had actually spoken with _the_ L.  They crowded me as the children outside had done, bombarding me with questions.  What did he sound like? What sort of things did he say? Was he even a he? I answered as best I could, a little overwhelmed by the attention and feeling my own sense of curiosity over the faceless detective start to grow.

We were interrupted by the return of Mr. Wammy, who blinked in surprise when he saw my visitors.  “What are you boys doing here? Don’t you have homework?”

“Always,” A said, only half a joke.  He had something of a melancholic air about him, a constantly furrowed brow and a habit of biting his lower lip, making it split.  He was lively enough when speaking, but when silent, he seemed alone in a crowd.

“We wanted to meet our new classmate,” B explained, the picture of innocence.  There was nothing melancholy about him, though he could probably use a little seriousness.

“She’s not your classmate just yet.  She needs to take the test first, which she’ll do right now.  So, boys, out you go before you break her focus.”

They obediently bounded out, but not before B called over his shoulder, “Go for the group of two, that’s the right answer!”

Before I could ask an explanation, Mr. Wammy huffed and shooed them away. “Ignore him, there are no right answers.”  I promised I’d pay it no mind, though I said it without smiling.  Of _course_ there were right answers – wasn’t that the whole point of a test?

He led me to the second floor, where the library and all the classrooms were, and ushered me into the first door we saw.  It was a little room, with no decoration and only ten desks.  One of the desks had a packet of papers and two pencils resting on it – the test, no doubt.  There was one large teacher’s desk at the front of the room, right before the chalkboard.  Seated in it was a graying man a few years younger than Mr. Wammy.  He turned and smiled at me as we walked in, but unlike Mr. Wammy, the smile did not reach his eyes or offer any warmth.  He didn’t like me, I determined, but not for anything overtly personal.  Maybe he just didn’t like kids, though why such a person would be working in an orphanage was a mystery even the great L would be hard-pressed to solve.

“This is Mr. Ruvie,” Mr. Wammy told me.  “He’s in charge of the Program and will be proctoring your test.  Roger, this is C.  Try and take it easy this time, all right? She’s a little fragile.” Those last two sentences were said in an undertone as the older man leaned into the younger man’s ear, but I heard them all the same.  I didn’t resent them; he meant well. 

“Nice to meet you,” Roger Ruvie said stiffly.  “Go on and take a seat.  You’ll have one hour to complete the test, and you’ll get your score later tonight.”  He turned back to Mr. Wammy, who was already edging towards the door.  “You’re not staying, Quillish?” There was the tiniest hint of agitation in his voice, like he objected to being left alone in a room with me. 

“I’m afraid so.  I’ve been gone too long – our mutual friend will be anxious for my return.”  They shared a knowing a chuckle, then Mr. Wammy wished me best of luck and made his exit.  Feeling as uncomfortable as Mr. Ruvie looked, I took my seat, picked up my pencil, and started looking over the test.

Since Papa had called it an entrance exam, I’d been expecting it to cover general (albeit quite advanced) knowledge and had pored over every high-level textbook I could get my hands on in preparation – not because I wanted to pass, but because it pleased Papa and because it was not in my nature to deliberately fail a test.  Against my expectations, there didn’t appear to be any history or linguistics questions, or even mathematics or science.  They were all paragraph-long word problems, meant to test logic and reasoning skills.  Remembering A’s words, I decided that the format made sense – logic and reasoning were to a detective what courtesy and diplomacy were to an ambassador.  Still, I’d never taken a test like this before, and read the first question with some anxiety:

_“You are an intern working at a prestigious research lab in the mountains.  Your professor is conducting an experiment on reanimation, and unfortunately, he succeeded – there is now a horde of flesh-eating zombies chasing you.  You, your professor, your fellow intern, and the lab’s janitor manage to escape the lab and make it down the mountain pass.  It is past midnight, and you have only one lamp between you to light the way.  Eventually, you come to a very old and very narrow bridge.  It appears that only a maximum of two people at a time can cross safely, but you will need to take the lamp with you to avoid rotting timbers.  One person cannot drastically overtake the other and leave them in the dark, or else they would be stranded.  You, the fastest, need only one minute to cross the bridge.  Your fellow intern needs two minutes, the janitor needs six, and your very old professor needs ten.  The zombies will catch up to you in twenty minutes; by then, you must have everyone across and cut the ropes so you can’t be followed.  Is it possible? Explain your reasoning.”_

I laughed as I read it, marveling at the fanciful scenario and earning a glare from Mr. Ruvie.  Who came up with something like this? Mr. Wammy? If so, the other children must enjoy story-time with him.  It took me about a minute to get the answer, and I wrote with confidence, though I struggled a little with the English letters:

_Yes – assume that A crosses the bridge in 1 minute, B in 2 minutes, C in 6, and D in 10.  A and B cross together, with A matching B’s pace – 2 minutes passed.  A takes the lantern back across the bridge – 3 minutes passed.  A and C cross together – 9 minutes passed.  A takes the lantern back across the bridge – 10 minutes passed.  A and D cross together – 20 minutes passed.  The group cuts the rope just in time and escapes._

Not difficult, as expected of the first question.  I moved onto the second, feeling a little better:

_“You are exploring the jungles of South America and have eaten the last of your food.  You spot some berries growing on a nearby bush and eat them quickly, but then you start to feel dizzy.  Too late, you remember your guidebook marking out those berries as poisonous.  There is only one remedy: you must lick a frog native to this jungle –”_

“Now, really!” Mr. Ruvie huffed as I laughed again.

“Sorry, sir.”

_“– lick a frog native to this jungle.  The skin of this frog secretes the antidote, but there is a catch: only the female frog secretes the antidote.  You know nothing about frog anatomy and have no way to determine the genders of identical frogs, but you remember from your guidebook that the male frog has a very distinctive mating call, while the female is silent.  And see how lucky you are – there’s a frog right in front of you! You start to run toward it, but stop when you hear the male frog’s distinctive mating call.  You turn around and see two frogs, but cannot determine which one made the call.  You are losing consciousness and have time to lick only one out of the three frogs.  Which direction should you run? Explain your reasoning.”_

Child’s play! I wrote without needing to reason it out:

_Toward the 2 frogs together.  The odds of survival for licking the single frog are 1 in 2, 50%.  With regards to the other 2, 3 possibilities exist: both are male (neither has the antidote), the left is female and the right is male (1 has the antidote), or the left is male and the right is female (also 1 has the antidote).  The odds of survival are 2 out of 3, 66.6%.  The odds are therefore higher if I go for the two frogs._

The rest of the questions, about thirty in total, were all the along the same lines.  I had to mull over a few of them, but for the most part, there was no cause for alarm.  The last question, however, gave me pause:

_“There is a runaway trolley barreling down the railway tracks. Ahead, on the tracks, there are five people tied up and unable to move. The trolley is headed straight for them. You are standing some distance off in the train yard, next to a lever. If you pull this lever, the trolley will switch to a different set of tracks. However, you notice that there are two people tied to the side track. You have two options: (1) Do nothing, and the trolley kills the five people on the main track. (2) Pull the lever, diverting the trolley onto the side track where it will kill one person. Which is the correct choice?”_

I’d heard of this question before – it was “the trolley problem,” a question not of logic but of ethics.  This would not determine my reasoning skills, at least not primarily; the real goal was testing my moral compass.  The correct answer, and the most logical one, was the one B had shouted to me, the one where the two people die.  If death was unavoidable, then surely the best course would be to take the fewest lives possible.

But _was_ death unavoidable? I thought back to the moment Papa had crumpled to the ground, his hand falling out of mine, a pool of blood spreading around him.  I thought of how miserable and frightened and utterly alone I had felt in that split second – and continued to feel now.  The problem didn’t say so, but all seven people tied to the track must have had families, friends, or loved ones, too.  How would they feel if any of them died? Was “it was the logical choice” really enough justification for the widows and orphans? It certainly wouldn’t have been for me.  There had to have been a third option – there had to have been an answer obvious to only someone smart enough for Wammy’s House.  I had to find it. 

I spent the rest of the allotted time biting my pencil and thinking as hard as I could, but nothing came to me.  Roger Ruvie watched me with interest.  At last, with ten seconds to go, I scribbled down an untidy answer:

_First, I would pull the lever to switch the train to the side track.  Then I would throw myself underneath the wheels of the trolley, which, due to the momentum and force, would either stop completely or slow down enough that the two on the side track would be more likely to get off with non-lethal injuries._

“Time,” Mr. Ruvie announced.  “Your test, if you please.” 

I stood up, gathered up my test, and brought it to him, breathing a little hard from my mental exertions.  Slowly, painfully slowly, Mr. Ruvie went through each question, nodding approvingly and making notes.  Then he got to the last page, and his brow furrowed while his mouth puckered in a frown.  He picked up the telephone on his desk and called Mr. Wammy.  Then he sent me back to my room.  I went without protest, sure I had failed.

After twenty minutes of waiting, Mr. Wammy knocked gently on the door and entered without invitation.  He sat beside me on the edge of the bed, and we waited for the other to break the silence.  At last, he cleared his throat.  “Chie, are you all right?”

“…I’m disappointed about the test,” I admitted quietly.

“Forget the test for the moment.  Are _you_ all right?”

“Y-Yes…?”

He paused, appearing to struggle for words.  “Sweetheart, I know it’s only been a day, and that you must be devastated by what happened to you and Akito…but you can’t give up.  Not yet.  Your father wouldn’t want that.”

Too late, I realized the implications of my final answer.  “Oh, no!” I shook my hands in a gesture of abject refusal.  “No, no, that’s not what I meant! I don’t want to kill myself – I want to live, I want to be a detective, I want to bring those horrible men to justice with L!” Tears were pricking at my eyes again, but I didn’t care.  “I just wrote that down because it was the most logical answer! It was the only way I could think of that would be able to save all seven of them.  I know that it wouldn’t guarantee those two on the side track, but I had to try! It might work!”

Mr. Wammy stared at me for a long time.  “I’ve never heard that sort of answer before,” he admitted.  “Especially not from a girl your age.  Everyone chooses to pull the lever and save the five.”

I hung my head, ashamed – not of my choice, but of the opportunity I had missed.  “D-Did…did I fail the test?”

He put a finger beneath my chin and gently lifted my head.  He was smiling.  “My dear, you only missed one question – if you can truly call your answer ‘wrong,’ which I can’t.  It breaks my heart to know you could make that choice, but I can’t say it’s incorrect.  And even if I could, you got every other question correct.  Just because A and B got perfect scores doesn’t mean that’s what’s necessary to pass.”  He dropped his hand from my chin and held it out for me to shake.  “Congratulations, C.  Welcome to the L Program.”


	3. 1.3: A Study in Black and White

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death Note (c) 2003 Ohba Tsugumi and Obata Takeshi. Another Note: The Los Angeles BB Murder Cases (c) 2006 Nisio Isin. All rights reserved.

**Chapter 3: A Study in Black and White**

I was thrust into my new life by a rigid, decisive routine.  Every morning at seven o’clock, marked not by an alarm but rather a sudden increase of thudding footsteps and raised voices, I would crawl out of bed and dress myself in the clothes I’d laid out the night before.  Then I would go down to the dining hall on the first floor.  It was the second-largest room in the whole House, bowing only to the library.  Even so, every resident, the number of which ebbed and flowed on an almost weekly basis, was able to just barely fit in.  Rather than one large table, or even several long ones, there were about twenty small round tables crammed into the hall, each able to seat about five or six kids.

On my first day, I ran into the little blonde girl with pigtails as I padded uncertainly into the hall.  Her name, as it turned out, was Abigail, and she took my hand without preamble and led me over to a table which hosted three of her friends and an empty seat which was obviously not there by accident.  It was the loudest table in the room, everyone shouting and laughing and talking with their mouths full.  At first, I ate my toast in silence and spoke only when spoken to, but little by little, I went beyond vague answers about my background and began laughing at jokes just like everyone else.  Before the meal was over, Abigail had declared the five of us – me, her, Arthur, Kimi, and Freddy – best friends.

A and B, meanwhile, were at a table by themselves, seated as far away from each other as they could physically get.  They said nothing to anybody, only locking their eyes onto their plates and eating like automatons.  When I asked Abigail why those two were eating alone, when every other table was packed almost to the breaking point, she stopped smiling for the first time since I met her. 

“Those two are weird,” she said in a stage-whisper.  “And they’re mean, too.  They think they’re better than everybody else, just ‘cause they have special teachers.  You shouldn’t talk to them.”  I had (rightly, it seemed) made the decision not to distance myself from my new housemates by telling them about the Program, and so I promised I wouldn’t talk to the boys – as long as Abigail or her friends were watching, anyway.

That promise lasted all of twenty minutes.  As we brought our trays over to the kitchen window and started meandering toward the door, little B waylaid us, appearing so suddenly in front of me that it seemed he had popped up out of nowhere.  “You shouldn’t hang around with those children,” he told me, as though we were completely alone.   “You’re one of us, which means you’re better than them.”  Then he grabbed my wrist and started dragging me away, ignoring both my and the rest of the group’s squawks of protest.  “C’mon, we have class.  You sit on my right, and A sits on my left, because he’s the smartest and you’re the dumbest.”

I turned my head to apologize over my shoulder to the others, but the words died on my lips.  The four still looked disappointed, but there was a funny sort of look in their eyes – a look of growing apathy mixed with wariness.  I had been marked out as different, one of the weird and mean ones.  Whatever bonds we’d fostered at breakfast would be gone by lunchtime. 

At the next meal, and every meal thereafter, I ate at A and B’s table.

-

After breakfast, the day’s instruction would begin.  While the normal half of the house struggled through their numbers and letters in many well-lit and spacious classrooms, the Program was exiled to the classroom on the second floor, next to the library.  There were no windows, no posters or decorations on the walls, and no bright colors anywhere.  The whole room was blank and white, like a hospital room – or like a prison. 

In the morning, we would have the daily instruction.  The first session would be Roger reading haltingly from a textbook that was clearly beyond him while we all took notes – or rather, stared blankly at the wall, already proficient in whatever low-level subject Roger was trying to teach.  Sometimes, Mr. Wammy would substitute for him, and we would all sit up a little straighter and maybe even smile a little, for he was kindly and warm and never treated any of us like we were stupid.  He loved and was loved by all children, and he had a special talent for making whomever he was talking to feel like the most special person in the room.  And when he caught my eye in particular, his smile would grow a tiny bit and he would wink at me.  I, in turn, blushed and grinned, flourishing under the special favoritism of a family friend.  The other kids never took vengeance for this small victory, but that was more out of fear of their idol’s reprisal than a lack of antipathy toward his special favorite. 

We had a half hour’s break, and then for the second session, a guest lecturer would come in.  They were all experts in their fields, and their fields were every subject imaginable.  Physics, biology, statistics, calculus, history, engineering, medicine, law – even art and music.  For the sake of broadening further our vast minds, we were presented with all the knowledge the world had to offer, and we soaked it up like so many sponges.  The entire lecture was spent taking furious notes, desperate to become masters of subjects we hardly knew existed at the start.  I learned more in that single lesson each day than I’d ever learned in public school back home.  It was almost fun. 

The third session was spent in quiet study, each student fetching a book from the library and cultivating their own particular interests and improving their own individual weaknesses.  No one spoke, each absorbed in their own work.  This was the best part of the morning, for I could go at my own pace and create a lesson especially to help me.  I had a strong enough foundation in almost all subjects, but my strengths were literature and languages, and all the talk of developing brains was developing in me a taste for psychology.  For every day I spent enhancing those skills, though, I spent four with subjects with which I was less confident: calculus, physics, and chemistry.  The work was incredibly difficult, as our textbooks had not been written for children, but I enjoyed it all the same.  When you got right down to it, we were just reading by ourselves, which I would have done anyway given the choice.

Next came a quiet and lonely lunch away from the normal children, and after that, our real work would begin.  The entire afternoon, minus another half hour break, was devoted to testing on all subjects.  There was no end to them.  No question was repeated, no subject the same as the day before; I hadn’t even realize so many different tests could exist in the world.  It went on for hours and hours, the pressure to get the highest score making me jumpy and anxious, but I had to keep taking them, because I had no other choice.  Roger would grade them overnight and return them to us the next day with a percentage written in red at the top.  He did not mark which questions we had gotten wrong – it was our job to figure it out and learn for the next time, because how else could we improve? At the end of the week, Roger would draw up a class ranking and tape it to the blackboard, in full view of the entire class.

B had had the right of it; our seats were arranged according to our ranking.  A, the top scorer, had the far right seat in the first row by the instructor’s desk, where he could receive the most attention and pruning.  B sat next to him, and I sat next to B.  As time went on, slowly but steadily, more and more children arrived at the House to fill up the other rickety desks.  They were from all over the world, all different shapes and sizes and colors.  They had only three things in common, both with each other and with us, their predecessors.  The first was their intellect.  The second were the letters they substituted for names.  The third was their silence.  Unlike the rowdy and easy companionship of the normal half of the house, no one in the Program ever spoke to each other unless they had to.  We were not friends.  We were rivals, competing for the ultimate prize: recognition that we were indeed the smartest in the world. 

Roger had made that abundantly clear from the very first lesson.  The goal of the program was not to simply educate us, he explained, but to craft us and sharpen us while our minds were still malleable, until we reached the very pinnacle of our individual potential.  At the top of that pinnacle was L, the greatest detective in the world, without whom the peace of our time could not endure.  When he died, one of us had to replace him, and to replace him, we had to be just as good as he was.  Our minds had to be exact copies, our deductive reasoning just as strong.  Only one of us could reach that lofty summit, and if we slipped up even once, we would tumble all the way back down, our goal forever out of reach.  Roger said all this plainly and shortly, as one did while facing something they despised, but sugar-coating it would not have made a difference.  We all knew why we were here.  This was not a school; it was a battleground.  The other students were warriors giving it all for honor and glory. 

I did not want glory.  Being a detective would have been fun, and perhaps I was even suited for it, but I’d never thought I could be the best in the world.  Besides, I was the third-best in the class, and remained that way no matter how many tests we took.  There was some shuffling of chairs in the ranks below us, marked with open shame and half-concealed sneers, but my scores never went higher than B’s, and B’s scores never went higher than A’s.  A was clearly the best out of all of us, and if only the best of us could succeed L, then there didn’t seem much point in the rest of us being here.

But there was no other option.  I had no other home to go to, no other future to pursue.  So I stayed, hating the airless classroom, hating the robotic classmates, hating the instructors and Roger and L and even Mr. Wammy, a little, for putting me through such torture.  Mostly, though, I hated myself for never succeeding.  

After the testing came dinner, and then a free hour before bed, which I usually spent reading for fun.  Most of the time, it was my trusty Sherlock, but the library had a vast collection of fiction in all languages.  Then it was off to bed, back up to my dormitory which was now quickly filling up with other girls from the Program – normal girls were housed separately.  They dropped off to sleep almost immediately, but I stayed awake for a while, staring up at the ceiling and chanting the same words over and over again, like I was praying.  _Hasegawa Chie.  Hasegawa Chie.  My name is Hasegawa Chie._

I would never forget who I really was, no matter how hard they tried to turn me into someone else.

-

Then one day, something changed.  It was afternoon break, and my shot nerves and tired brain were at a loss for how to rest themselves.  I wanted to play outside, but I knew that none of the other kids would play with someone from the Program, and tossing a ball against the side of the House was the height of humiliation and misery.  A and B usually spent their breaks in the library, but I’d had enough of studying – and enough of them, to be honest.  So I wandered around aimlessly, exploring my new home while only half paying attention, the fog in my brain still thick and deep.

I found myself in the recreation room, where board games and activity books were stacked up high.  It was empty at the moment, since the normal kids were in class.  My eyes slid across the billiards table and stuffed animals, then came to rest on a little table by the window.  It was an oversized chess set, the pieces arranged for the opening move.  Hardly thinking about it, I crossed the room, took a seat in one of the little chairs, and moved a white pawn forward.  Then, drawn by the sounds of shouts and laughter, I glanced out the window.  The toddlers, too young to be in school, were running around outside, each with a broad smile across their sticky faces.  Something twanged in my chest, and I squeezed my eyes shut as a dam against the tears already starting to form.  Those kids were lucky.  They got to be kids.  They got to be themselves.  They could be whatever they wanted, and the world didn’t matter to them, and they didn’t matter to the world.  I would have given everything to be like that again.

Then I heard the soft clack of wood on wood, and I turned to see a boy standing before me, moving a black pawn forward.  A skinny boy with messy black hair and wide eyes, wearing a white long-sleeved shirt and blue jeans. 

“It’s you!” I blurted out, jumping out of my chair with such force that it fell with a clatter behind me.  “You’re that weird kid from the embassy!”

His eyes narrowed ever so slightly, and his pale lips momentarily pressed into a thin line.  “I’m not a weird kid.  You’re the one playing chess by yourself.” 

I stared at him, my eyes darting up and down to drink in every inch of his appearance.  That denial was the most ridiculous thing I’d ever heard; there was not a single inch of him that did not scream “weird” from the rooftops.

Ignoring my scrutiny, the boy sat down on the chair opposite me.  Well, “sit” was the wrong word – he started by stepping up onto the chair, then bending his knees until they were pressed up against his chest, so that he resembled some very large, ungainly frog.  He raised one long-fingered hand to his mouth and began chewing intently on the thumbnail.  His eyes, never blinking, were fixed on my face.  “It’s your turn, C.”

Still stunned, I mechanically righted my chair, sat back down, and moved a knight.  His free hand shot out and moved another pawn immediately, as though he’d been planning that move no matter what I did – or he’d already anticipated my action.  “No one else ever comes here at this time.  I was surprised to see you.”

“S-Sorry.”

“It’s okay.  I haven’t played against anyone besides Mr. Wammy in a long time.  Though he’s better than you are.”  Without even looking, I had moved my rook into the path of the black knight, and the boy swooped upon my piece immediately.

I scowled, irritated by the mistake.  “So if no one ever comes here, then you play chess by yourself, right? Didn’t you just say I was weird for doing that?”

“Oh.  I guess I did.  Maybe I am weird.”

_No kidding_ , I thought, startled by the blatant about-face.  “How did you know to call me C?”

As he answered, he kept his eyes on the chessboard, gaze flitting thoughtfully between pieces.  “C for Chie, yes? That’s how it works here.  Or, since you are Japanese, do you prefer H for Hasegawa?” 

I jumped at this casual use of my birth name, so long gone unspoken.  “N-No, C’s fine.”  In that instant, I felt a surge of gratitude toward this mystery boy, the only one to recognize me as a person rather than just a puppet.  “What’s your name?”

He froze, bishop hovering in mid-air, and considered the question.  “I don’t know,” he admitted at last, setting down his piece.  “I never knew my parents.  Whatever they called me, I have no way of finding out.”  He said all this matter-of-factly and without emotion, like he was commenting on the weather.  I expressed halting sympathies, and in response, he finally looked up and stared at me curiously, like I had just said the strangest thing imaginable.

I took advantage of his momentary distraction (and quashed my own unease) by capturing one of his pawns.  “You must be called something.”

“I must be.”

“…”

“…”

“…well?”

“Well, what?”

“Are you going to tell me what you’re called?”

“I wasn’t planning on it.  You don’t really need to know, do you? Check.”

I hastily blocked his path with my remaining rook.  “That’s how it works.  You know my name, so I need to know yours.  I have to call you something.”

“I won’t be calling you by name – it’s forbidden in the Program.  And you can just call me ‘weird kid’.”

“Jeez, I said I was sorry,” I grumbled, rolling my eyes.  Then, realizing what he had just said, I added, “Are you in the Program, too?”

“Sort of.  As I’m sure you’ve noticed, though, I don’t sit in with the class. Check.”

I wormed my way out of the trap again, moving absentmindedly.  “Private lessons, huh…you must be even smarter than A.”

He shrugged his bony shoulders.  “Who knows? I didn’t take an entrance exam, so technically I didn’t beat his score.  I like your answers.”

Distracted by the revelation – how exactly could one enter the Program without the exam? – it took me a minute for his statement to sink in.  “My entrance exam, you mean? How did you get those?”

“Quite simple, really.  I asked Mr. Wammy for them, and he showed them to me.”  He met my eyes again.  He’d done it only twice since entering, but each time the deep, dark intensity of his gaze had sent a jolt through me.  “You know the scenario you crafted for the trolley problem only has a twenty-six percent change of success, right? And if we factor in your current height and weight, the odds plummet further.  You would certainly die, and there is no guarantee that you would be able to slow the trolley sufficiently to save the hostages.”

“If I didn’t try, then the chance of success would be zero.  I’d rather die on the off chance I could save lives then live with myself after throwing them away.”  I moved my queen before his king.  “Checkmate.”

“Wrong, just check, see?”  He captured my queen with his knight, which was sacrificed to my bishop in the process.  “That’s an interesting viewpoint, especially considering the fact that it is held by a young girl.  How is it that you developed it?”

Now it was my turn to pause.  That was a good question, one to which the question did not easily come.  My family had not been religious, and so had no guidance from some divine law-book that spelled out the way things were supposed to be.  I had only my own underdeveloped moral code, which hadn’t really been precipitated by any one event.  I was nine years old, too young to be pondering the existential secrets of the universe.  But then I thought of the blood on the floor of the embassy and the look on my father’s face as he crumpled to the floor, thrown into sharp relief by a mind in broad daylight not fogged with sleep or jolted awake by terror.  I shuddered.

“I guess,” I began slowly, “it’s just better when people don’t die.  And if someone has to die, it should only be one person, and not for something meaningless.  Life is really important,” I finished, slightly sheepish from the corniness of my speech.

The boy, however, was still looking at me and nibbling his thumbnail, seeming to be in deep thought.  At last, he nodded.  “That’s a good philosophy.  I agree with you.  Also, checkmate.”

I glanced down at the board.  While I’d been talking, he’d managed to completely surround my king.  I hadn’t focused at all on the game, and now I’d lost.  I expected to feel upset, as I did whenever I lost out to one of the other kids in the Program, but instead, my desire for redemption had no malice to it.  “Darn it.  I’ll beat you next time.”

He frowned and cocked his head to the side like a curious puppy.  “Next time? You want to play again?”

“Why not? It was fun, and you’re pretty interesting.”

“I am?” He glanced away.  “No one’s ever called me that before.”

“Aw, are you embarrassed?” I teased.

He looked up, his face as pale as ever.  “Why would I be embarrassed?”

“Uh…w-well –”

At that moment, we were interrupted by B, who had run nearly past the door to the recreation room and had to brake jerkily by grabbing the threshold.  “C, there you are! Class is starting!”

I glanced at my watch and cursed; had a half hour really passed so quickly? Quickly, I got to my feet and started jogging toward the door, then stopped and doubled-back.  “You’ll come back after dinner, right?”

“Do you want me to come back?” he asked, tilting his head again.

“I wouldn’t have asked otherwise, would I?”

“That’s true.”  He thought for another moment.  “Yes, I’ll try to come back.”  And then he smiled a tiny smile, his face transforming from statuesque mask to something real and human.  For just a second, life sparked in his eyes.  Seeing it felt…nice.

Once we were out in the hall and on our way back to the classroom, B burst into giggles.  “Wow, C, I can’t believe you actually want to spend time with that freak.”

“He’s not a freak,” I snapped, to both his surprise and mine.  “Um…I mean, _you_ don’t really have the right to call anyone a freak, do you, B?”

He giggled again.  “You’re right about that!” None of the kids in the Program, myself included, could really be considered “normal,” but B was strange even by our own low standards.  He never looked anyone in the face, always staring at some fixed point over their heads.  He was constantly throwing his voice, trying out weird accents and silly cadences, so that you never spoke to the same person twice.  He was always smiling, too, and not a cheery or pleasant one.  It was the sort of smile you’d expect the bad guy in an old cartoon to have drawn on.  It was bizarre and unsettling, made even more so by the fact that B both recognized his behavior as such and made no attempt to correct it.

“Who is he, anyway?”  Despite the antisocial nature of the program, B somehow seemed to know everyone in the House, whether they knew him in return or not.

B shrugged.  “Nobody knows.  He lives here, I guess, but he doesn’t eat in the hall or play outside like everyone else.  He doesn’t talk to anyone, and he always sits by himself.  I’m not even sure where he sleeps.”  He looked at my face, and his slasher’s smile widened.  “Why? Is he your boyfriend? ‘Cause you could probably could do better.  Probably.  Not much better.”

I punched him in his arm, making him giggle even harder.

-

I couldn’t remember a single question from the afternoon’s tests, and I wolfed down dinner within five minutes, such was my excitement.  I couldn’t help myself.  This kid, odd as he was, was now the closest thing to a companion I’d had since that first disastrous breakfast.  Starved for affection and basic human contact as I was, I felt the need to latch onto him like a leech, never mind how he looked or acted. 

But when I arrived, practically skipping, at the recreation room, I saw to my dismay that my new friend wasn’t around.  The room was full of kids trying to squeeze in once last game before bedtime, but I couldn’t pick out a single white shirt or messy hairdo.  Stomach plummeting in disappointment, I turned and started to plod away – only to run smack into Mr. Wammy.

“Oof – ah, hello, C,” he greeted me with a smile.  I looked up at him morosely – not even a rare sighting of my perennially busy caretaker could lift my mood – and in response, his smile disappeared.  “Why, what’s the matter? You look so terribly sad.”

I sighed and shook my head.  “It’s not that big a deal, Mr. Wammy.  It’s just – well, I thought I’d made a friend today, but he didn’t show up where I asked him to meet.  Maybe he doesn’t like me.”  Normally, the thought of such a fate didn’t faze me, as there were very few people I myself liked.  Still, it would have been nice to have just one person who knew me as Chie and not C.

Mr. Wammy frowned in empathy and put a comforting hand on my shoulder.  “Oh, dear, what a shame.  He probably didn’t realize he would upset you.”

“I know.”  He didn’t seem to grasp the concept of embarrassment, after all.  Maybe he didn’t work well with people, something that seemed more and more likely given his eccentric behavior.

“Maybe I can help,” he suggested.  “Who did you want to meet you here? I can go get him and remind him that you’re waiting for him.”

I fidgeted, suddenly getting the sense that I was doing something wrong, though I couldn’t quite say what it was or why I had the feeling.  “U-Uh…well, he was that boy.  The one who was with you when you found me at the embassy.”

His smile faded, replaced by a look of shock.  “You saw him? How –?”  He paused, then sighed and shook his head in wonder.  “To think he would come down in the middle of the day…well, no matter.”  He resumed his normal, albeit a little strained, smile.  “I’m afraid that young man isn’t here.”

“Doesn’t he live here?”

The strain became more pronounced.  “He said that? That is…well, yes, he does live here, but separately from the rest of us.  You see, he’s in the Program as well, but he has a far more rigorous curriculum than the rest of you.  He’s in class at the moment and won’t be finished till bedtime.”

“Oh…okay…”

Mr. Wammy went on to ask about how I was doing, but I knew he wouldn’t want to hear the answer to that, so I found some excuse to end the conversation early and left maybe too abruptly, leaving him standing alone in the hallway.  I wasn’t really paying attention; I found myself lying on top of my bed with no recollection of how I’d gotten there.  My brain had been too focused on what it had just heard.

_Separately from the rest of us_ …there were no outbuildings, high-rises or otherwise, on Wammy property, which meant the boy lived in the same building but in a place no one could accidentally wander into.  _To think he would come down in the middle of the day_ …which meant he lived on an upper level.  A high place within the House to which I was forbidden to go – there was only one place.  Evidently, I hadn’t imagined the movement at the bell tower window after all.  That had been the boy, watching me arrive.  There was only one story separating us, and I was feeling an overwhelming desire to close the distance.

If someone had asked me why I felt that way, I wouldn’t have been able to answer.  It was a stupid idea, not to mention rude.  The boy didn’t want me interrupting his lessons in his private space, or else he would have invited me.  Plus, I would be breaking not just the rules, but Mr. Wammy’s trust, and that would be poor repayment for all he had done for me.  By all accounts, I ought to have stayed put, kept my head down, and hoped I’d see the boy some other time. 

But I couldn’t.  Somehow, I _had_ to see him.  Maybe it was because he was just so strange, and my logic-trained brain needed to expose itself to him again to begin to understand.  Maybe I was just sick of seeing the same unfriendly faces day in and day out.  Or maybe it was because he was the only person who called me by name, the only one besides Mr. Wammy who had known who I was before I became a child of the Program.  I didn’t know, and I didn’t particularly care.

So, for whatever reason, I crawled under the covers and feigned sleep until all my roommates were in bed themselves.  After waiting another half hour for good measure, and when I was sure the house was completely silent, I slipped out of bed, crouched to the floor, and grabbed a small emergency flashlight from my little pile of belongings.  Then I snuck over to the door in stocking-feet to muffle my footsteps.  The House was well-maintained, and the hinges did not squeak as I opened or shut the door. 

Once out in the dark and abandoned hall, I switched on the flashlight and began padding down the corridor.  I hadn’t had many opportunities to explore while I’d been here – the most successful Program participants studied even during their breaks.  However, I had stumbled across a locked door on the fourth floor, just a little ways away from my bedroom, with a sign tacked onto it that said “Bell Tower – Do Not Enter, Structure Unsafe.”  Creeping over to it now, I saw that the door was indeed still locked.  If I wanted to, I probably could have found the key in Roger or Mr. Wammy’s office, but if Sherlock Holmes didn’t need a key, then neither did I.  Instead, I pulled one of my hairpins out of my pocket and wiggled it around in the keyhole till I heard the tumbler click.  So simple, and yet so effective.  _Let’s see those study-freaks do that_ , I thought with a smile as I pulled open the door.

Just beyond the threshold was an old and rickety-looking staircase.  I hesitated only a moment before going in, shutting the door quietly behind me, and climbing the first step, one hand on the railing and one hand pointing the flashlight up into the night.  The stair creaked as I put my weight on it, and I froze, waiting for the rush of footsteps on their way to discover me.  Nothing happened, so I climbed another step, wincing at a fresh creak.  This process repeated itself for about five more steps, until I decided that the door at the bottom of the staircase blocked enough sound, and so continued without fear.

It was slow going.  The steps were high, and I was pretty small for my age, so it took effort to ascend each one.  The staircase seemed to go on forever – I lost count at around sixty-three steps, but I doubted I was even halfway up.  Was the bell tower really this high? It didn’t seem that way from the outside.  I climbed for what felt like hours until at last, puffing and sweating, I reached the top.  There I found another door, this one cracked open and spilling artificial light out into the tower.  Cautiously, I pressed myself against the door and peeked in through the opening.

I saw the boy, sitting in that weird position in an office chair too large for him.  I saw a desk, on which sat a computer, a new model with a big screen that lit up the entire room.  I saw a picture on the screen, a black calligraphic “L” floating on a white background.  I saw a file folder open in front of the keyboard, full of photos that were obviously taken at a murder scene.

And I understood why the boy had no name, and how he could be a part of the L program separate from the potential successors.

I must have made sound, for the boy suddenly swiveled his chair and looked at me.  There was no surprise or anger or sadness on his face.  He just looked at me with that same blank expression he had worn during our chess match.  He made no effort to hide the computer screen – he knew I had already seen.

“I’m sorry!” I said, forgetting myself and bowing in the Japanese fashion.  “I won’t tell anyone, so – p-please forgive me!”

Then I spun around and tore back down the stairs, not caring how much noise I made or if I woke up the whole house.  It was already too late.  I had seen L’s face.  I knew his identity.  And because of that, I would no doubt be kicked out of the House – if not silenced altogether. 


	4. 1.4: L

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death Note (c) 2003 Ohba Tsugumi and Obata Takeshi. Another Note: The Los Angeles BB Murder Cases (c) 2006 Nisio Isin. All rights reserved.

**Chapter 4: L**

I spent the entire next day braced for impact, anticipating every moment as my last.  I barely touched my food, and I did not answer any questions in class.  The day’s lesson floated in one ear and out the other, and I read the same paragraph over and over without a single word sinking in.  Both breaks were spent at my desk with my head down.  God only knew what I put on my test.  All my brainpower was focused on concocting increasingly-elaborate and bizarre torture scenarios I was sure the House would put me through.  I wasn’t stupid – I knew how crucial L was to the world, and what it meant to have his identity compromised.  Roger had made that abundantly clear during my first lesson.  Now that I had discovered the truth, I could not be allowed to go free.

But nothing happened.  No one called me out of class or the dining hall.  Roger didn’t treat me any differently, and I didn’t see Mr. Wammy at all.  The day wore on and on, nothing out of the ordinary happened, and my terror gave way to confusion.

At the end of the day’s instruction, I dragged myself to the front of the room and handed in the gibberish that passed for a test, then headed out into the hall, one of the last to leave.  I found myself caught in a crowd of gawking children, all staring and pointing at a figure standing along the opposite wall, back slightly bent and hands in his pockets.  It was the boy – no, it was L.  I felt all the blood rush from my head and nearly fell over, so great was my renewed fear.

L caught my eye, and then turned and shuffled down the hall with his back still bent, ignoring the whispers of the onlookers.  After a few seconds, he stopped and twisted his torso so that he was looking at me.  He wanted me to follow him.  I hurriedly started after him, aware of the whispers growing louder.

He brought me not to Mr. Wammy’s office or some other place of disciplinary action, but to the recreation room.  As before, there were no children playing inside, which was odd considering what time it was.  Perhaps they were being deliberately kept out.  Still, the room wasn’t completely empty – Mr. Wammy was standing near the chessboard, pouring tea from a shining silver pot into a matching cup.  As I walked in, he turned to face me.  I flinched and looked away, but when nothing happened and I peeked back, he was smiling. 

L, meanwhile, had reached the chessboard with that odd shuffling gait and was crouched in the chair behind the white pieces.  He moved a pawn forward two spaces, then turned his head and looked at me expectantly.  Not sure what else to do, I took the seat opposite him and moved a black pawn two spaces.  He moved another pawn, and so did I.  For a few minutes, there was no sound except the clacking of the pieces.  Mr. Wammy had placed the teacup by L’s side of the board and was pouring a second cup, which he placed by me.

At last, the tension became too much for me.  “I’m sorry,” I blurted out, looking from L to Mr. Wammy.  “I shouldn’t have gone to the bell tower.  I won’t ever do it again, and I won’t tell anyone what – what was up there.”

“You said that already,” L replied.  “Last night, when you were leaving.  Check.”  I was too overcome to respond.  My vision was starting to blur, and I impatiently rubbed the tears out of my eyes.  I was not going to cry.  I would go out with dignity.  It was what Papa would have wanted.

“His bishop is in the path of your knight,” Mr. Wammy prompted gently. 

“Don’t help her, that’s cheating,” L complained, a hint of irritation in his voice.

“Just leveling the playing field a little.  You know you’re better than both of us combined, L.”

His casual use of the name he’d tried so hard to hide made me jump.  I glanced upward and saw that he was still smiling.  “A-Are you going to throw me out?” I asked in a traitorously wobbly voice.

He looked appalled.  “Throw you out? On the streets, with nowhere to go? My poor child, whoever gave you that idea? No, you’re staying right here where it’s safe.”  He might have meant “where the secret you know is safe,” but I didn’t care.  I leapt out of my chair and hugged him around the middle, crying in earnest now.  He gave me his handkerchief and then patted my head and made soothing noises until I could compose myself.

“But you understand, don’t you?” he said at last, taking the handkerchief back and putting it in his jacket pocket.  “This is a very serious thing, C.  No one can ever know about L, even the tiniest detail.  He’d be in great danger, and you don’t want that, do you?” I shook my head, still sniveling.

“She didn’t do anything wrong,” L piped up from his chair.  “I was the one who left the door open.”  He hadn’t moved from the chair, but was watching my meltdown the way a cornered mouse would watch a cat. 

“Then let that be a lesson in prudence to you,” Mr. Wammy said to him.  “And isn’t there something you would like to say to her?”

“Not really.”

Mr. Wammy sighed the sigh of the long-suffering.  “L, when you see a young lady crying, the kind thing to do would be to comfort her.  Particularly if, as you say, the fault is yours.”

His eyes widened a little, but he murmured that he understood, stood up on his chair, and then hopped off.  He then shuffled over to me, stared at me a moment, and then patted my head a little too hard with a flat palm.  “…There, there.”

I blinked up at him.  “Um…thanks.”  He nodded, then beat a hasty retreat back to his chair.  He looked so disproportionately disturbed by the situation that I couldn’t help but giggle.  “You’re kind of funny.” 

He tilted his head to the side.  “Is that better or worse than ‘interesting’?”

“Oh, I don’t know.  Better?”

“I see.  Are you going to take your turn, or shall I take it for you?”

Following Mr. Wammy’s suggestion, I captured his bishop with my knight.  My opponent pressed his lips together in a thin line and glanced over at the older man, but said nothing.  Mr. Wammy, for his part, chuckled a little.

I took a sip of tea and then asked, “Why did you leave the door open? It should’ve been locked, too, right?”

He glanced up at the ceiling, tugging at his lower lip with an index finger.  “I don’t know.  Mr. Wammy told me you’d been asking about me, and I had the idea that you might come looking for me.  I’m not sure why I thought that, though.”  The idea seemed to annoy him.

“Did you want me to go looking for you?”

He looked at me.  “Why would I want that?”

“Uh – I don’t know.  But did you?”

He was quiet a long time.  “I wouldn’t have turned you away,” he said at last, in a softer voice than before.  “Checkmate,” he added at normal volume.

I groaned.  “Got me again.  Best two out of three?”

“Very well.”

-

After that, we saw each other every day.  He was busy with his cases, of course, and so we couldn’t meet during all my free time, but we usually had the hour between dinner and bedtime to spend together.  We would play chess or read quietly, and every once in a while, when all the other kids were in for the night, we would go outside ourselves.  We never played their sorts of games – they were too strenuous and too incomprehensible to L – but he liked sitting on the swing set in that strange way he did.  Once I tried pushing the swing, but he had no balance and ended up falling flat on his face.  That made me laugh, but he stayed away for two days after that.  I found that I missed him when he was away, so when he came back, I contented myself with swinging on my own while he watched and spoke from the other, stationary swing. 

Our topics of conversation were somewhat limited.  I knew better than to talk about his cases, and he wouldn’t really tell me anything about himself, only that he had come to Wammy’s House when he was eight and started being a detective when he was nine because it sounded like an interesting thing to do.  So most of the time, we talked about me.  He asked me a lot about what I was learning in class, and when I mentioned not understanding something, he took it upon himself to teach me.  He was an impatient instructor, but he was much better at explaining things than Roger, and gradually, the margin between B and myself began to shrink.  L would also ask about my life before the House.  I told him about Japan, about my old school and my old acquaintances (for I had no “friends” in the strictest sense of the word).  And about my dead family: my intelligent and indulgent father, my English-born mother who had died giving birth to me, the paternal grandparents who had lived just down the street and had died in a car crash two months before Papa’s last diplomatic mission.  When the talk turned to those subjects, I would find myself overcome by the grief and nostalgia I was not allowed to display in front of the others, and would quickly change the subject.

“Why does talking about your family upset you?” he asked after one of these instances.

I stared at him.  “Why –? Are you joking?”

“I don’t like jokes.”

“Uh, right…w-well, it upsets me because I miss them.  My Papa and my grandparents, my house, even my school…there are times that I really, really want to go back to the way things were.”

“Why?” he asked again.

I hesitated.  “Even if you ask me that, I’m not sure how to respond…maybe it’s because of nostalgia, or maybe I was just happier back then.  I mean, it’s an emotion, right? I can’t really explain why those happen.  Don’t you have some part of your past that you miss?”

“No,” he said immediately, without feeling. 

“O-Oh.  How come?”

“I’d rather not talk about it.”  Again, he said this with no feeling, like he really wasn’t affected either way.  “So it’s normal to miss your family when they’re gone?”

“Yeah.  Most people would feel that way.”

“I see.  I’ve learned something new today.  Thank you.”  He paused.  “If ever the opportunity comes for you to return to Japan, though, I’d wish you wouldn’t go.”

“How come?” I asked, a little defensive.

“I like talking to you.  No one else would have the same sorts of conversations with me, even if they wanted to talk to me in the first place.”

“Oh.”  I looked away.  For some reason, my face was beginning to grow warm.  “I like talking to you, too.”

He looked over at me, brow furrowed a little.  “Is that so? No one’s ever said that to me before.”

“W-Well, it’s true.”

And it was.  He may have been weird, almost inhumanly so, but I enjoyed his company.  Just as L had said about himself, I’d never had those sorts of conversations with anyone else before either, and the change was refreshing.  If nothing else, it was nice to get away from the obsessive competition with my classmates and the silent judgment of the other children.  But it wasn’t just that I was lonely; I found L himself interesting and would have done so no matter how many friends I had.  I respected his vast intellect and was in awe of his deductive prowess, but his complete helplessness with social endeavors and the other practicalities of life were both amusing and a little sad.  I decided to teach him everything I could about being a normal person, and although he never really took my lessons to heart, he listened with rapt attention.  As time went on, even his quirks – the way he sat, the way he played with his mouth, the fact that he always wore the same clothes, the fact that he never looked neat or tidy, the fact that he only seemed to eat sugary things – stopped fazing me.  For the most part, anyway.

After about two weeks of this, on a day Mr. Wammy was subbing for Roger, he called me over to his desk after morning lessons.  He waited until the other students (who thought I was in trouble, and so smirked at me and giggled behind their hands) had left, and then thanked me solemnly and sincerely.  “As you can imagine, L has always been a rather troublesome child, but I’ve noticed a change in him in these past few weeks.  He’s grown more empathetic and more patient, which he sorely needed to do.  His social skills are improving as well.  That’s all due to your influence.”  He ducked his head in the Japanese fashion.  “So thank you, C.  You’ve been very good to him.”  I assured him that it was no great sacrifice on my part.

I was changing, too.  The Program still stressed me out, but now I had something to look forward to every day, and so I was never again seized with that crippling despair.  My headaches started becoming fewer and farther between, and even my nightmares lessened.  I caught myself smiling more and speaking more readily to my classmates, who responded only by staring at me in silent confusion.  Life started to get easier.

Still, the rigors of the Program did not go away as my mood improved – if anything, they became worse.   The whole point of all this was to train our brains to be exactly like L’s, so that we could continue his work after he had died.  Before, the idea had seemed perfectly sound to me.  Now that I knew whom I was emulating, however, I found the whole thing patently ridiculous.  Who could possibly mimic those strange habits, those snapping traps that were his wits, or that brain crammed with every bit of obscure knowledge the world had to offer? I certainly couldn’t.  What he solved in half a minute, I had to mull over for an hour or more.  It wasn’t from lack of effort or motivation; it was just the way my brain was wired.  No matter how hard I tried, I would always fall short of him.  Thus, the exercise of molding my brain into an exact copy of his was impossible, and therefore entirely pointless.  Besides, even if I had been able to reach his potential, the idea of carrying on his work after his death – or more specifically, of his death itself – left a sour taste in my mouth. 

Not that there was anything I could do about it.  I lived at Wammy’s House and possessed a greater-than-average intelligence, which meant I had no choice but to continue the Program.  So I grit my teeth, kept my head down, and waited impatiently for my daily hour of peace.

-

About three weeks after I’d first climbed the bell tower, something unusual happened.  When I took my morning break, I found L waiting outside the classroom again.  Without a word, he started down the hall, then stopped and looked back at me expectantly, just as he had on that first night.  And just as before, I followed him without question, feeling a sense of unease bog down in my chest.  This time, however, we did not go to the recreation room.  Instead, he led me to the fourth floor, and then, to my astonishment, through the unlocked door to the bell tower and up the stairs to his room.

Once inside, I took an eager look around, no longer limited by the small vantage point afforded by an open door.  The room – well, it was more like an attic – was spacious, but sparse, owing to the fact that L did not seem to own much.  There was the desk, chair, and computer I had seen on my first visit, but beyond that, the only furnishing was a narrow twin bed, the sheets unmade and crumpled.  The bed was right underneath the sole window, which had no curtains, making me wonder how he managed to sleep with the light of the sun and the streetlamps filtering through.  There was another door against the left wall, half-open, revealing a closet lined with identical sets of the same outfit.  There were no decorations on the walls.  Stacks of books on all subjects rose haphazardly off the floor, and there were bits of trash scattered across the floor, mostly candy wrappers and spent sugar packets.  It seemed more prison cell than bedroom, and I marveled that L could live there – but then again, he wasn’t the type to keep meaningless frills about him.

The room’s occupant, meanwhile, had seated himself in his desk chair and was waiting for me to finish drinking in the scenery.  Somewhat embarrassed, I cleared my throat and asked why he had brought me to his room.  In response, he moved the computer mouse and woke up the screen.  I had a brief flash of the image I’d seen the other night, the black “L” on a white background, before L brought up a minimized tab. 

“Take a look at this picture,” he told me, “and tell me if you recognize this man.”

Curious, I came up to peer over his shoulder.  The picture on screen was of a man walking on some crowded thoroughfare in broad daylight.  He was not looking at the camera, so the picture must have been the result of some covert photographer.  The man in question was Japanese, around forty years old, about 150 centimeters, and maybe 130 kilos.  He wore a dark leather jacket, blue jeans, and faded workman’s boots.  He had one hand in the air, like he was hailing a taxi, and the hand was wrinkled and calloused like a workman’s.  His sleeve fell down the upraised arm, revealing a pink and ropy scar snaking across his wrist. 

_Wait…that scar…_

I’d seen it before.  The hand carrying the gun had been gloved, but when the arm had lifted, the sleeve had fallen away just like in this photo, revealing the same scar.  The arm had belonged to a short and fat man – a man with the same build as the man in the photo, who wore the same style boots, and who had some reason for a staffer at the Japanese embassy to let him inside without suspicion.  I looked at his face again, and this time, I pictured a ski mask obscuring it. 

“That’s him,” I heard myself say.  “That’s the man who shot Papa.”  The room started spinning, and I had to clutch the edge of the desk for support.  It was getting hard to breathe, like there was a great round obstacle lodged in my chest.

L watched me silently, waiting until I had gained some semblance of composure, and then clicked on a different tab.  Another picture came up, then another, then another.  He showed me six men, all Japanese, all tall, all muscular.  By their physiques and other physical traits, I was able to haltingly identify them as the fat man’s six enforcers. 

When we’d gone through the pictures, L nodded, brought up the “L” screen again, and turned to a small device set before the computer’s keyboard.  It was a small box with two square buttons built into the top, with a long tin implement resembling a microphone sticking out of the top.  L pressed first one button and then the other, then leaned in toward the microphone.  On the screen, a small box appeared, displaying a wavy line like an EKG pulse.  Above the line were Japanese characters reading out “NPA Detective-Superintendent Takimura Kanichi.”

In perfect Japanese, L said, “Detective Takimura, is Nakamasa Toru still in his house?”

As Takimura responded, the EKG wave began to spike along with his pitch.  “Yes, L.  I have the entire block on lockdown and three strike teams at the ready.  Same with the other six.  They won’t be getting away.”

“I have just received confirmation that our targets are indeed the perpetrators.  Please act as you see fit, but if at all possible, I would like them to be taken alive.”

“Understood.  It should be over in five minutes.”  The wave went flat as the connection fizzled out.

L pressed both buttons a second time and turned to me, his face blank as ever.  “As we anticipated, Nakamasa Toru has no connection to either German or the Valkyrie terrorist group.  His battle-cry was a ruse to divert the investigation.  In reality, his motives were entirely personal and rather childish.  Before your father was appointed the English ambassador, he had been a speaker in the National Diet, correct?”

“Y-Yeah.”

“During his tenure, he was the deciding vote in favor of a motion to reform the nation’s policy on heinous criminals.  Under this new bill, the requirements necessary for recommendation of capital punishment became less strict, and as a result, more criminals were sentenced to death.  One such criminal was Nakamasa Toru’s younger brother, Ryotaro.  It seems that Toru believed that had your father not allowed the motion to carry, his brother would not have been sentenced to death.”

His voice sounded very far away.  I was vaguely aware of my knees buckling to meet me and the harsh contact they made with the wooden floor.  My hands balled into fists, and my breath came hard and fast.  The whole thing played out like I was watching a movie, seeing myself fall to the ground from a great distance.

“For such a reason,” I heard myself say, “my father had to die?”

“It is rather common that the motivations behind a crime are far blander than the method.  In any case, Nakamasa hired the other six as additional muscle and tricked a janitor into letting him into the embassy.  Once inside, he carried out his vengeance himself, while his hired thugs disposed of the witnesses.”

Before I could respond, a wave of static came from the computer, and the wave began spiking again.  “We’ve got him, L,” Takimura said, his voice high with triumph.  “We’ve got all of them.  They kicked up a fuss, but no one was hurt.”

L fiddled with the buttons and microphone before replying.  “Excellent work, Detective.  I thank you for the part you played in this.  If you would, please escort Nakamasa and the others to a holding cell.  I will deal with the matter of their confessions presently.”  He cut the connection and turned back to me, still looking uncomfortable.  “That’s that, then.”

I stared at him, struggling to make my voice work again.  My mouth moved soundlessly, but no words came out.  At last, I was able to choke out, “What’ll happen to them?”

L shrugged.  “I would be very surprised if all seven did not get the death penalty.  Perhaps the underlings could get by with life in prison, but there is no hope for the ringleader.  The crime was quite severe, after all.”  He looked at me intently, now the cat instead of the mouse.  “How do you feel about that?”

“I…I don’t know…” I was relieved the killers had been caught, and of course I could see the arguments for the death penalty.  They were cold and cruel men, and their motivation did not call for such terrible actions.  But if it was the death penalty that started all of this…

There was a sudden movement and soft rustling from somewhere above me, and I looked up to see L crouching on the floor before me.  For the first time, his blank expression had changed.  Now he looked uncomfortable, furrowing his brow and chewing on his bottom lip. 

“I’m…sorry,” he said with difficulty after a moment.  “I’m sorry…that this happened to you.” He ducked his head in an imitation of a bow.

I rubbed my eyes, feeling them start to prickle dangerously.  “Thanks…and th-thank you for finding Papa’s killer.  I don’t know how I can repay you.”

“You don’t need to.  I did it because I wanted to.”

“Because it was interesting?”

“Because you deserve to have justice.”

I stared at him a moment, and then burst into tears, no longer able to contain myself.  My body moved as though someone else was controlling it, and I found that I had flung myself at L and wrapped my arms around his back, clasping him in a tight embrace.  He stiffened in my grasp, but he didn’t push me away.  After a few minutes, he freed one arm and began patting my head.  “It’s okay,” he murmured.  “I kept my promise.  Cry if you need to, but don’t worry anymore.”

I hiccupped and tried speaking past the lump in my throat.  “You’re a good person, aren’t you, L?”

He tensed up even more.  “I-I don’t think so.”

“I do.  Thank you.”

“You're welcome.”


	5. 1.5: The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death Note (c) 2003 Ohba Tsugumi and Obata Takeshi. Another Note: The Los Angeles BB Murder Cases (c) 2006 Nisio Isin. All rights reserved.

**Chapter 5: The End**

-November 5th, 1994-

When it happened, I was in the nursery, playing with the baby.  I say “baby,” but he was probably three or four years old by this point.  A few months ago, I had been on my way to meet L in the yard when I found him sitting on the doorstep, a look of profound confusion on his face and a note pinned to his pajamas with a safety pin.  _His name is Nate River_ , it had said.  _Please take care of him in my stead._   I had promptly scooped up little Nate and brought him to Roger, who brought him to Mr. Wammy, who made the arrangements to have him live in the House with us.

He was a funny sort of baby.  His hair was pure white, but his eyes were pale blue, so it must have been some genetic mutation besides albinism.  He was at the age where he ought to have been talking, but he never said a word and hardly ever cried out.  He barely even smiled or cried, instead regarding everything with an air of detached and vague interest.  He could walk on his own, but with clumsy faltering steps, more characteristic of a younger infant learning to walk for the first time.  Still, I could hardly call his development stunted.  Though he never spoke, he drank in every word he heard and seemed to understand with perfect clarity.  He could already read, not just picture books but novels from the library, which he mostly accessed by sitting on my lap as I read them.  When he looked at me, it was like getting scanned by an X-ray.  There wasn’t just comprehension behind those eyes, there was real intelligence.  The way they stared, and the size and depth of the pupils, almost reminded me of L’s all-seeing stare.  Without a doubt, little Nate would qualify for the Program when he grew up.  The thought made my stomach turn and so I resolved to spend as much time and shower as much affection on the little guy as I could, so he could store it up in preparation for the emptiness and solitude of the training.  I wasn’t sure how successful I’d be on that count, but Nate certainly appreciated it; he had taken to following me around the House and clinging to my legs when I wasn’t paying him enough attention. 

We were playing with a little robot toy, Nate’s eyes widening with wonder at the light-up buttons, when I heard the thudding of footsteps in the hallway outside.  Looking up, I saw B skidding to a halt and bounding into the nursery, his pudgy frame filled with uncharacteristic energy.  He was smiling, which wasn’t wholly unusual – he was always grinning like a loon whether it was appropriate for the situation or not.  Still, this smile in particular, wide and jagged and joyless as it was, gave me pause. 

“What is it?” I asked, instinctively drawing Nate close to my body.  The baby squirmed and fussed, uncomfortable with physical contact.

“Come look,” B said in a low voice.  His smile did not lessen.  “Roger graded yesterday’s test.  The rankings are up.”

Yesterday’s test…it had been an unusual one, a simulation in which we investigated and solved a murder case similar to the kind L took on.  I wracked my brain but couldn’t remember what I’d written; I’d met L afterward, and so had pushed the day’s unpleasantness from my mind, to a place where apparently it could not be recalled.  Was it possible that I failed? For the three years I’d been at the House, I’d never managed to move beyond the third-best spot in the class.  Had I moved at last, but the wrong way? Despite my increasing revulsion with the Program, the consequences and fear of failure had been so thoroughly ingrained in me that, to my disgust, I found myself shaking.  There was nothing for it but to follow B up to the classroom, leaving Nate and his robot behind.

At that time, there were a total of fifteen students in the Program, and twelve of them were crowded around the notice board when we arrived, whispering to each other and pointing at the rankings.  As we approached, they turned their heads and stared at us – no, not at me.  At B.  _Nothing wrong with me, then,_ I found myself thinking, furious at my sense of relief.  The crowd parted, and we walked right up to the notice board to read it.  Sure enough, my name was still listed third, with a comfortable lead over the fourth-place G.  Looking closely, I saw that nothing listed below me had changed, the names in the exact order they had been in yesterday.

Then I looked above my name, and my heart skipped a beat.  A and B had switched places.  

“Oh, my God,” I whispered.  I rubbed my eyes and looked again, wondering childishly if the rankings would change with a second look.  They didn’t.

“Right?” B said.  “Guess the Golden Boy’s lost his sheen, huh? I wonder if this is why the numbers have gone down…”

“Huh? What numbers?”

“Who knows? Not me!”

His giggle was high-pitched and nervous, and when I looked over at him, I saw that he was visibly shaking, his face pale.  I didn’t blame him – we all knew what it meant to be in first place.  Now, if L should die suddenly, B would take his place and assume all his responsibilities.  B, who was hot to L’s cold, manic to L’s calm, and impulsive to L’s calculation.  B, who was probably the only person on earth I could genuinely call stranger than L.

He would be a disaster as L.  I couldn’t let it happen.

“Where’s A?” I asked, scanning the crowd of wide-eyed faces.  He clearly wasn’t among them; at sixteen, he towered over all of us younger kids and would have been visible in an instant.  I repeated my question, with more volume this time, but was met with only uncertain muttering in response.  Swearing, I raced from the room and began my search, calling out for my senior and opening every door I came across with such force that it was a wonder none of them flew off their hinges.

At last, I found him.  He was slumped on the floor, leaning against a bookcase in the library, which was deserted since everyone else was in class.  He didn’t look up as I came in, and he hadn’t responded to my calls, which I was sure he would’ve heard from here.  Suddenly afraid, I crossed the room, knelt down beside him, and shook his shoulder.  He didn’t move.  “A?” I shouted.  “A, can you hear me? C’mon, answer me!”

He stirred and lifted his head as though it weighed a hundred kilos.  “D-Don’t shout in my ear, C…”  His eyes were red and bloodshot, and shiny tear-tracks stained his cheeks.

I felt my shoulders slump in relief, and I let out the breath I’d unconsciously been holding.  “Thank God.  Why didn’t you answer me? I’ve been calling and calling.”

He lowered his head again, watery eyes fixed on the floor.  “I didn’t hear.”

“What do you mean, you didn’t hear? I was shouting all up and down this hallway.”

“I wasn’t paying attention.  I was thinking about something.”

“The notice board?” I guessed.  He didn’t confirm it, but what else could he have been thinking about.  I put a hand on his shoulder and smiled at him.  “Hey, it’s okay.  This was a weird test.  They’ll give us normal ones again, and you’ll get back on top in no time.”

He shook his head.  “It’s not okay.  I failed, don’t you get it? I failed…” A great shudder passed through him, and he started to sob.

“No, you haven’t,” I insisted, squeezing his shoulder maybe a hit harder than necessary.  “It’s just one test.  Look, there’s another one this afternoon, right? And the day after that, and the day after that.  You can still improve your ranking, but not if you give up, right?”

His head snapped up, and his teary eyes flashed with fire.  “You don’t get it!” he snarled, his voice cracking from emotion.  “It’s not _just one test_ – it was _the_ test! The one that proved whether or not I could solve a crime, whether or not I can be a detective like L – and I couldn’t do it! Knowing useless facts and reasoning out silly word problems doesn’t matter if I can’t do the real thing!”

I flinched, startled by the power behind his outburst.  “O-Okay…w-well, maybe I can help.  Do you know what you got wrong?”

He laughed, the sound darkened with hysteria.  “The very worst of it – I arrested the wrong man, and the real killer took another twenty lives!” His tone was so despairing and helpless, it was as though it had really happened, rather than being a hypothetical situation.  “Those people died, and the falsely-accused man’s life is completely ruined, and it’s all my fault.”

This time, I couldn’t stop a strain of irritation from emotion.  “It’s a _test_ , A.  It’s made-up.  You didn’t hurt anybody.”

“But what if I had? If I can’t even get it right with fake people, how am I supposed to get it right when it matters?” He sighed and dropped his head again.  “How am I supposed to live up to their expectations…?”

And suddenly, I was tired.  Tired of these silly little children chasing sterilized fantasies.  Tired of these mad scientists playing God with our brains.  Tired of working myself raw for the sake of a dream I was neither able nor desiring to reach.  L was L, A was A, and I was me.  We were all different, and we thought different ways, and we wanted different things.  It was so obvious, so why was I the only one who could see it?

Struck by impulse, I blurted out, “What’s your name?”

He lifted his head, his expression confused.  “W-What?”

“Your name.  The real one.  What is it?”

“I-I can’t –”

“Yeah, you can.  Go on.”

He hesitated, chafing against the rigid restrictions of our invisible prison.  Finally, he managed to say in a whisper, “It’s Amir.  Amir Moez.”

I stuck out my arm, and when he didn’t move, I grabbed his limp hand and shook it, like we were new acquaintances.  “Nice to meet you, Amir Moez.  I’m Chie Hasegawa.” 

He gasped at this blatant breach of protocol and tried to wiggle out of my grasp, but I only tightened my grip.

“I’m Japanese,” I said in a louder voice, looking him straight in the eye.  “My favorite food is strawberries.  My best subject is languages.  My worst subject is calculus.  I love reading detective stories, especially Sherlock Holmes.  That’s who I am.  That’s what makes me _me_.  And I can tell you right here, right now, that none of those things I just said make L _L_.  He doesn’t even have a single ones of those traits, period.”

He blinked.  “H-How do you –?”

“Listen to me, Amir Moez.  You’re not L.  You will never be L.  None of us here, not you or me or B or any of the others, will ever be L.  And L will never be like me, or you, or anyone else, because he’s L and we’re us.  It’s not because we’re stupid, or because we’re not trying hard enough.  It’s because it is _physically impossible_ to copy someone else’s brain.  You can admire someone, or imitate their good habits, but you can’t one-hundred percent _be_ them.  We’re not toy soldiers you can make on an assembly line – we’re human beings.  We’re different from each other.”  I looked down at him and smiled.  “So be yourself, Amir, and be happy with who you are.”

There was a long silence.  Amir stared up at me, mouth working soundlessly like a fish’s, tears still streaming down his cheeks.  I stared back, still gripping his hand, waiting for him to see reason. 

Then I heard a soft cough behind me, and I turned to see a very distressed-looking Mr. Wammy standing in the doorway.  Distracted, my grip slackened enough for Amir to wrench his arm away, and before I could stop him, he had barreled past Mr. Wammy, running with all the speed and fervor of an escaped convict.

“W-Wait!” I called out, but he was already gone.  I thought about chasing after him, but he was older and taller than me; I would never catch him. 

Even if I could, though, Mr. Wammy was barring the door, and as I caught his eye, he shook his head.  “Let him go, C.  I daresay your enthusiasm gave him quite a fright.”

I wilted, suddenly aware of the seriousness of my crime.  No one involved in the Program could ever learn each other’s real name, in case they ended up as L one day and needed to keep their identities hidden.  Under Mr. Wammy’s watchful eye, the ingrained fear of failure flared up again.  “I’m sorry,” I said in a low voice.  “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Perhaps not.”  Then he smiled.  “All the same, it’s nice to hear some common sense.  I’ve been trying to reconcile what you just said to the greater good for years.  Unfortunately, needs must, as it were.  We’ll need another way to go about doing things, but we can’t drop the matter entirely – L’s presence is too crucial for that.”  I nodded, understanding at least in theory.  He let out a heavy sigh, and suddenly he seemed very old.  “But I’m afraid that Roger must take the lead on that front.  It seems I’ll have my hands full with other matters for quite some time.”

“Other matters…?” And that’s when I observed him closely for the first time.  He had his bowler hat in one hand, which he only wore when he was going out.  He had an umbrella in his other hand, and the forecast did not call for rain today – or the rest of the week, for that matter – within at least fifty miles of Winchester.  And, most damning of all, there was an old and worn trunk propped up behind him, packed for a journey.

“Are you going somewhere?” I asked, though I had already discerned the answer.  A stab of panic shot through me.  Not Mr. Wammy, not my warm caretaker, not the only adult who treated me with any kindness…

He sighed again, and this time, it was tinged with irritation.  “So he didn’t tell you after all, hmm? What a troublesome child.  I suspected as much, of course, but all the same…yes, my dear, I’m afraid both myself and our mutual friend must leave as soon as possible.  He believes that he has reached the zenith of his abilities here, and can only improve them in new environments.  I agree that getting out will be good for him, in terms of both ability and character.  My hope was that we would leave overnight, with no word to anyone except Roger – callous, I know, but I can’t come up with a way to mask the truth of the venture – but it occurred to me that our young friend ought to tell you the truth of it, at least – he’s in his room!”

This he shouted out behind me, for I had taken off while he was still speaking.  It took me less than five minutes to reach the bell-tower door, which was blessedly unlocked.  From there, I did not so much climb as fly up the stairs, so urgent was my errand.

Thankfully, L was indeed still in his room, peering intently into a small, open suitcase in the middle of the floor.  The room had been completely emptied, with no trace that it had ever been occupied.  He looked up as I rocketed in, panting heavily and clutching the doorframe as a means of both braking and keeping myself upright.

“Hello, C,” he said, looking damnably unruffled as always.  “I wasn’t expecting to see you today.”

I waited until I had gotten my breath back, and then I said in an accusatory tone, “So you’re leaving.”

“Yes.  I don’t think this House can do anything more for me, and it will be more efficient to collect data in closer proximity to the crime scene than if I were shut up here.  This will only increase the speed at which I –”

“Were you planning on telling me?” I cut in, practically spitting. 

He blinked.  “No.  Why would I?”

“Why _would_ you?” I echoed in a shriek, making him wince.  “Are you kidding me right now? How do you think I would feel if I woke up in the morning and found out that you’d left overnight without a word to me? Don’t my feelings matter at all?”

“I don’t understand why you’re so upset,” L said in a somewhat meeker voice than usual.  “What should it matter to you whether or not I live here?”

“Because seeing you every day is the only thing that makes my life bearable! Goddammit, L, you’re the only friend I’ve got!”

That caught him off guard.  His mouth fell open just a little, and he tilted his head from side to side like an owl as he struggled to understand.  “I’m your friend?”

“ _Yes_ , L.  Aren’t I yours?”

He hesitated, biting fiercely at his thumbnail.  “I’ve never had a friend before,” he mused.  “I don’t really know…I’d have to study up on the matter –”

“Give me a break! Am I your friend or not?”

“Y-Yes, I suppose so.”

“Then _as your friend_ , I need to know if you’re leaving! It affects me too!”

“…I’m leaving.”

I huffed in impatience, and then suddenly had an idea.  “Wait right there.”  I ran back down the stairs, through the door, and over to my bedroom.  It was empty, which was convenient.  As always, my Sherlock book was resting on my nightstand, waiting for me to pick up where I left off.  I wrenched the bookmark out of it, grabbed a pen, and opened the front cover.  After reading over the familiar inscription on the first page for the last time ( _For Chie, in celebration of your sixth birthday.  Love, Papa)_ , I scratched it out with only the briefest hesitation.  Then I wrote an inscription of my own: _To my friend, in hope that you’ll think of me once in a while.  Happy hunting, Chie Hasegawa._   I blew on the ink to dry it, shut the book, tossed the pen on the bed, and returned to L’s room, quite out of breath by now.  He was right where I’d left him, looking a little confused.

I marched up to him and held out the book.  “Here, take it.” 

He frowned at it.  “This is your book.  The one your father gave you.”

“Yup, and now it’s yours.” 

“This is your most prized possession, is it not? Why would you give it to me?”

“To remember me by, stupid.”

“I don’t need a book to remember you.”

The casual admission made a bubble of warmth in my stomach, but I was not appeased.  “Take it anyway.  It’s customary to give going-away presents.”

“Is that so? Well, if it’s customary…”  Just like that day in the embassy, he pinched the spine of the book between thumb and forefinger, and then dropped it on top of the packed bundle of belongings.  He shut the case with a snap, then turned back somewhat awkwardly to me.  “I don’t have anything to give you.”

I waved my hand dismissively.  “Forget it.  I don’t need help remembering you, either.  You’re hard to forget.”

If he caught the jab, he ignored it.  “All the same, I ought to – oh, that’s something.”  He stepped forward, closing the distance till our faces were only an inch apart.  Startled, I scrambled backwards, but he only stepped forward again.  When he had me cornered, he bent down close to my ear and whispered two words.  Then he straightened up (as much as he ever did, anyway) and shuffled back to his accustomed distance looking rather pleased with himself.

“That’s my name,” he explained, in response to my questioning look.  “Or, at least, as much of it as I’ve been able to discover without relatives to aid me.  No one else but Mr. Wammy knows it, so be careful to whom you say it.  It’s not even entered in the House’s database with the others’.”

My jaw dropped.  His _name_? The one thing he could never say, for fear of his own life and the world’s safety, and he just blurts it out to me of all people? “Why would you tell me that?”

“Because I trust you with it.  Friends trust each other, right?”

I nodded dumbly.  Then, in spite of myself, I laughed.  “So all this time, you haven’t been using an alias at all? You told the whole world your first name, and no one realized it was actually your first name?”

“It would appear so.  Stop laughing.”

“I can’t help it – you’re named after a letter!”

“As I said before, it’s _my_ letter.  How would you like it if I suddenly – oof.”  I’d rushed forward and hugged him tightly around the middle, cutting him off.  Like before, he completely froze, taut as a drum; he hated being touched.

“I’m gonna miss you, L Lawliet,” I muttered into his shirt.

He didn’t answer, but that was all right.  I wasn’t expecting him to.

-

They were gone within the hour.

I helped them load their bags into the boot of Mr. Wammy’s Mercedes, and then wished them a safe trip and to come back and visit one day.  Mr. Wammy promised that he would, hugged me tightly, and whispered that he was so proud of the young woman I had become.  L didn’t say anything, but it was not so much because of callousness as because he genuinely had no idea what to say.  So he bowed as deeply as he could without getting out of his slouch and wished me luck with my studies.  Then we climbed into the backseat, and Mr. Wammy got into the driver’s seat, and they were off.  As they turned into the road, I ran out behind them, standing in the middle of the empty street and waving until the car had turned the corner and was gone from my sight.  Only then did I let myself stop smiling and start crying.

What was I supposed to do now? The two spots of hope in my life had disappeared, and I was lost in the dark of the Program once more.  How was I going to survive? At a loss, I decided that the one thing I could do now would be to wash my face, so that none of the others would know I’d been crying and ask me why.  It was something, at least.

I wanted privacy, so I went all the way up to the bathroom on the top floor.  It was both water closet and tub-room at once, the two sections separated by another door inside.  The water closet portion was right behind the threshold, so I didn’t need to disturb whomever was bathing.  Someone was in there – the door was closed, and I could hear the water running.  Still sniveling, I turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on my face, then looked at myself in the mirror.  My face was pale and pinched, with two splotches of red in my cheeks and two more in my eyes.

“It’s okay,” I said to my reflection.  “It’s okay.”  One day, maybe I’d believe it.

Then my eye landed on another bit of red, and one not on my face.  It was on the floor, mingled into the puddle that was slowly seeping from under the door to the bathtub.  Even at this distance, I could tell it was blood.

A cold feeling of dread washed over me, and I rushed to the door and jiggled the handle.  Locked, of course.  Rather than waste time calling out, I gave in to my instincts and kicked the door down (this was done easily, as I’d had another growth spurt last month and was now quite tall and strong).  Then I made to leap over the threshold, but froze, paralyzed with horror.

He slumped fully clothed in the tub.  The faucet was still running, the water mixing with the blood and spilling over the side in a rusty waterfall.  One arm hung limp over the edge of the tub, the fingers stained, the gash on his wrist weeping the last vestiges of blood from his body.  His head, too, lolled over the edge, the eyes sightless and glazed.  On the wall above him, a note had been sloppily scrawled in crimson: _I AM NOBODY._

It was A, and he was dead.


	6. 1.6: The Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death Note (c) 2003 Ohba Tsugumi and Obata Takeshi. Another Note: The Los Angeles BB Murder Cases (c) 2006 Nisio Isin. All rights reserved.

**Chapter 6: The Beginning**

There wasn’t a funeral.  What could anyone even have said? Amir Moez had no family, no friends, nothing to identify him, and nothing to tie him to the world.  As far as the world was concerned, he didn’t even have a name.  Even if he could be mourned by anyone, none of us would have mourned him.  To the kids in the Program, A had always been an obstacle to overcome, someone to surpass, the silver medalist just within a hair’s breadth of L.  With him out of the picture, the ultimate goal was just the tiniest bit more attainable.  So, if his death was acknowledged at all, it was with a quiet sense of relief. 

At least, that was the case with the other children.  It was different for me.  Now I had nightmares not just of my father’s body, but of Amir’s body, too.  My brain couldn’t go for five minutes without conjuring up the memory of that broken shell.  We all moved up a position in class, and the leftover desk shoved in the back corner drew my gaze like a beacon.  Everywhere I went, I saw his bloody and empty body peeking around the corner, the milky eyes full of accusation. 

And every time I remembered, I was crushed anew by the realization that his death was completely my fault.  He may have slit his wrists himself, but I may as well have handed him the razor.  Why had I lost my temper? Why had I crushed his dreams? Why had I tried to force him to embrace a self that had never been allowed to exist? Why hadn’t I run after him? Why hadn’t I stayed with him? Why had I been too concerned with my own problems to answer what was clearly a cry for help? Why, why, _why_?

Just when I was on the brink of despair, I would remember.  It was true that I had pushed Amir off the ledge, but I hadn’t put him up there in the first place.  It was this damn House, this damn Program, these damn people.  They were the ones who made him think like that.  They stripped us of our minds and our souls and took away everything that made us human.  They unscrewed the tops of our heads and fucked around with our brains until we accepted as truth the idea that if we couldn’t do one specific and impossible thing, then we were worthless.  They poked and prodded and crushed us until the pressure became too much, then rolled up their sleeves and moved on to the next one when the first became too broken.  They did this to Amir, and they were doing it again with B.

The new heir apparent was not adapting to his role well.  He had always been strange, but the added pressure and attention was pushing his oddities up to eleven.  That first day, when the coroner was carting away the thing that had once been Amir, he had found me sobbing in the empty library.  “What are you getting so upset for?” he asked, his tone equal parts curious and with contempt.  “It’s not a big deal.  The numbers just ran out, that’s all.”

I raised my head and looked up at him through my tears.  “N-Numbers? W-What do you mean?” In the back of my mind, I recalled that he had said something similar earlier that day, in front of the notice board.

He smiled that same jagged and joyless smile from before, closer to a sneer than anything else.  “The numbers.  The ones that count down his life.  Everyone has them, even you.  You’ve got a whole lot, though, so don’t worry.”  He cackled, a harsh and grating sound that made me clap my hands over my ears in horror.  “To think he’d kill himself! I was curious how he’d do it when I saw the numbers go down, but I never thought…people sure are funny, huh? _So_ interesting!” He lumbered off, snickering and muttering to himself.

He kept on making those sorts comments whenever someone mentioned A, or death in general, really.  He stopped chattering in class and throwing his voice; instead, he would only stare intently at a person, and when they would turn to look, he would smile that evil smile, look at their face, look above their heads, and run away laughing.  The answers he gave during lectures became increasingly erratic and violent, though never decreasing in logic.  His mindset was becoming not so much calculating as crazed.  Clearly, he was suffering from some mental disorder.  And yet he remained at the top of the class by a wide margin.  Roger considered that a success, and so did not interfere or meddle in any way with what he considered winning conditions.  All that mattered was that he had a backup L, not what sort of L the backup would be. 

The first successor – the first _child_ – was dead by his own hand.  The second was rapidly going mad.  If things carried on as they had, then what happened to the third – that is, what would happen to me? I was now second in line, a single step up from where I had been before, and yet already I could detect a change.  Roger was paying me more attention, which meant the tests he gave me specifically were getting harder and harder.  Before, I had maintained my position somewhat comfortably; now it was all I could do just to keep up.  My breaks were now devoted to studying.  I had no appetite and barely slept.  My headaches came back in full force, so bad that I could barely keep down whatever I managed to eat.  Worst of all, L and Mr. Wammy were gone, and with them went the only happy parts of my life.  I had no friends, no chance to rest my brain, and no reason to smile. 

And that was just as the spare – what happened if Roger came to his senses and made me the heir instead of B? Well, the answer was simple – I would die.  Either I would kill myself, work myself to death, or lose my wits entirely.  Death of the body or death of the mind.  And if by some miracle I managed to outlive L (the thought of which made my heart plummet), then I still wouldn’t be able to succeed him.  If my time with him had taught me anything, it was that I could never reach his level.  His brain was on another level, far above even A, the one who came closest.  I couldn’t think the way he did – I wasn’t made that way.  As the new L, I would crash and burn.  It was so far beyond me that it was almost laughable.  It would be the worst death yet: death of the soul.

Observing from an objective standpoint, the only viable option would be to request a transfer out of the Program and into the normal half of the House.  Even if I asked, though, Roger would forbid it, loathe as he was to lose a valuable resource.  Mr. Wammy would have allowed it – he had told me that even if I’d failed the entrance exam, I’d always have a home with him.  But Mr. Wammy wasn’t here anymore, and I’d lost my opportunity.  I might have been able to take it before he’d left, but like a fool, I’d thought I could handle it.  The gods or the universe or whatever had made me special, given me a brain and powers of deduction several times more potent than that of the average person.  It was my responsibility, therefore, to use it, to solve the problems no one else could, to help as many people as possible with the gifts I’d been given.  Anything else would’ve been a waste; there would have been no point to me otherwise.  A part of me still felt that way, and in the back of my mind, I knew that being a detective was not just the best use of my mind, but the only path I could see myself on.  But not like this.  Never like this.

There was only one thing for it.  I needed to get out.  I had to leave the House and go – where? I had no family, no prospects, and no way to survive.  I couldn’t contact L or Mr. Wammy, because I had no idea where to find them.  What’s more, I would be leaving in my wake the smartest and most rational minds on the planet.  Even one of them would be able to track me down and bring me back with ease.  From where things stood, escape was impossible.

What was I going to do?

-

-November 27th, 1994-

The answer came to me like divine intervention.  For a second, I thought that was how it had happened, too.  The man at the gate certainly looked like an angel, with his flowing blonde locks, flawless porcelain skin, and sparkling blue eyes.  He was loitering just beyond the borders of the House’s property, looking so casual and relaxed that it seemed perfectly natural that he should be there.  I saw him when I was bringing baby Nate to play outside (a Sisyphean task, as he was quite the homebody even at his age) and couldn’t help but stare.  I was nearly thirteen years old and still in the early stages of puberty, neither ready for nor interested in boys.  Still, I had enough aesthetic sense to appreciate a well-fashioned face.  And for some reason, he looked a little familiar…

He saw me gawking, and a lazy smile spread over his face.  He raised a hand and beckoned me over with one long finger.  Wary but desperate for the outside world, I answered his summons, leading a pliant Nate by the hand.

“ _Bonjour_ , _Mademoiselle_ ,” he said in a pleasant, friendly voice.  He smiled at me without condescension or patronization.  His teeth were perfectly straight and white. 

Judging by the accent and cadence, he was a native Frenchman, so I answered in his own tongue.  “ _Bonjour_ , _Monsieur.  Comment-_ _allez vous_?”

His smile widened in genuine delight.  “ _Très bien_ , _merci beaucoup_.  _Et toi_ , _ça va bien_?”

_Mais non_ , I thought.  _Terrible_.  _Mauvais_.  _Le pire_.  I contented myself by answering, “ _Comme ci, comme ça_.”

“Are you Asian, little lady?”

As if it wasn’t obvious.  Still, I humored him.  Less rational brains liked that.  “Yes, sir.  I was born in Japan.”

“And yet you speak French as well as if you had been born there.  A difficult feat to be certain, especially for one so young! How old are you, _chérie_?”

“Twelve, sir.”

He groaned and slapped a hand to his forehead.  “ _Mon_ _Dieu_ , always with the _Monsieur_! It makes me sound like a stuffy old man, and I’m hardly any older than you!” That was an exaggeration; he was maybe ten or twelve years older at the very least.  “Please, _chérie_ ,” he went on, “call me Thierry.”

“Thierry,” I parroted obediently.  “My name is C – I mean, Chie.” 

“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Chie.  Tell me, how many languages do you speak?”

I smiled, for once indulging in pride.  Minds like mine loved to be flattered, and this guy was doing it well.  “How many are there?”

“My, my, what a smart cookie you are! Are you the smartest cookie in that whole orphanage?” His tone still wasn’t patronizing; he sounded genuinely curious.

I hesitated.  According to the rankings (and discounting L), I was only the second-smartest.  But since my only competition was the rapidly-deteriorating B…“I-I guess so,” I said in a low voice.

“ _Non_ , _non_!” He waggled a finger at me.  “Be confident in yourself! You have a gift, and what point is there in hiding it? _Are_ you the smartest?”

I squared my shoulders and looked him straight in the eye.  “Yes, I am.”

He clapped his hands.  “Excellent! That’s just when I thought when I saw you.  And, just between us…”  He knelt down and whispered to me, cupping one hand at the side of his mouth to deter eavesdroppers.  “…I’ve heard that this is no ordinary orphanage.  A certain well-informed gentleman source of mine says that this place takes in the most exceptional children from all over the world and trains them to become top-notch detectives.  In that case, you’re probably smarter than most people of the world, yes?”

I took a step back, dragging Nate with me.  The flattery was losing its power, and reason was kicking in.  Who was this man, and how did he know the House’s most heavily-guarded secrets?  And most importantly…“What do you want with me?”

The smile slid off his face, replaced with a look of unaffected shock.  Hurriedly, he held up his hands in a gesture of surrender.  “Whoa, wait just a moment! Don’t think I have anything unsavory in mind! I have no quarrel with this place and only wholesome courtesy in mind for you! On this, you have my solemn word.”  He sighed, looking forlorn.  “But you’re right to be suspicious.  We live in a frightening world, don’t we? A world where innocent little girls, and many others, end up with the short end of the stick.  I’d like to change that, if I could.  I’d like to live in a safe and peaceful world, where criminals always get what they deserve and justice always wins.”

Then it clicked.  “And you want a detective to work together with you.  The best detective in the world, one who can solve every case.  So you’ve come to adopt one of us.”

He straightened up, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.  “I see my gentleman source was not exaggerating – the children of this House really are as smart as they say! Though I don’t think I could adopt in the more traditional sense of the word.  I’m too young to pass for your father, after all…perhaps your brother? I’m an only child, you see, and I’ve always wanted a cute little sister.”

“Why me?”

“You’ve just told me you’re the smartest, and the smartest is what I want.  And besides, I rather like you, Chie.  You have a certain charm.  My proposal sounds interesting, doesn’t it? You’d get a chance to be a real detective and solve real cases, not just made-up test questions.  You want to do that, right?”

I did, in spite of everything.  But still, I was on the defensive.  “Is that it, or is there something else in it for me?”

He laughed, the sound light and airy.  “Now, there’s a girl after my own heart! You’re already wise in the ways of the world.  That’s good – you’ll never be on the losing end of things if you always keep your own interests in mind.  Let’s see…cooped up in that house, you don’t get to learn very much about people, right? They teach you book smarts, but not social smarts, right? I could help with that.  I may not look it, but I’m very good at interacting with people.  With me to teach you, you could make any man in the world your best friend.”

I could believe that.  He, too, was charming, and combined with his good looks, he made quite the attractive companion.  “Anything else?”

“Only the most important thing.”  He lowered his voice conspiratorially again.  “Living in that House isn’t all that enjoyable, right? If you agree, you can live with me, and you never have to go back.”

There it was – my ticket to sanity.  I wanted to hop the fence right then and there, but reason mastered instinct.  His casual mention of the simulated cases given on the Program’s tests had pushed the shades back, and I finally realized why he looked so familiar.  “I understand, everything, Thierry – including why you want a detective in the first place.  It’s not justice, whatever you just said; it’s for money.”  I gave him a triumphant look.  “To prepare us for the real thing, they make us study criminals from all over the world, and I recognize you from one of the assignments.  You’re Thierry Morrello, a wanted con man.  Right?”

The mask finally shattered, and the shock was no longer forced upon.  For a second, I thought he would get angry, but after taking a deep breath, he laughed again.  This time, it was a little chuckle of wonder, the realest thing I’d heard from him.  “You really are just what I’m looking for, huh?” he said, more to himself than to me.  Then he looked up and smiled.  “That’s right.  That’s exactly what I want.  So, what will you do? The offer still stands, exactly as I said it.  Still interested, or are you going to call the cops?”

“If she doesn’t, then I will.”

A hand closed around my shoulder like a vice, and at the same time, Nate’s hand was jerked from my own.  I looked up to see Roger looming behind me, holding a struggling Nate with his other arm and scowling at Morrello.

“We’ve been warned about you,” he said in a low, threatening voice.  “Our patron keeps track of men like you, and he told us you were in the area.  I won’t let you lead any of my children down your evil path.  Leave now, or I’ll get the police involved.”

He obeyed without protest.  Giving a Gallic shrug, he winked at me and sauntered off, whistling like he hadn’t a care in the world.

When he had safely rounded the corner, Roger let out a sigh of relief and smiled down at me.  “Not to worry, C,” he said gently.  “You’ve had a close shave, but everything’s all right now.  From now on, don’t talk to strangers, all right? They’re not all criminals, but as you get older…well…” He coughed uncomfortably.

Stiffly, I thanked him for looking out for me and let him shepherd me into the House.  He went to put Nate back in the nursery, and I ducked into the nearest water closet.  Barely managing to lock the door behind me, I sank to the floor in a puddle of tears, cursing my fate.  So close to freedom, and Roger had snatched it away like usual.  I hated him, I hated him, I –

_What was that?_

I shifted my leg and heard it again – a sort of crinkling, like folded-up paper.  There was something in my pocket that hadn’t been there when I went outside.  I pulled it out.  I was indeed a piece of paper, fancy stationary by the look of it, folded into a flat, neat square.  So the con man picked pockets, too? A trick of the trade, no doubt.  I unfolded the paper and read the note.  It was a phone number and the words, “In case you are interested,” written in French, signed only “T.”

I knew where things stood.  If I went with him and lent him my services, then I would be committing a crime.  I would be swindling real people out of their real money, ruining real lives.  It would all be a lie.  But the detective work would be real, too.  I would actually be helping people get justice, and even if that didn’t cancel out what I was doing for money, then it was an enticing enough prospect.  _Needs must_ , Mr. Wammy had said, and I agreed.  It was crime or death, with nothing in between. 

There was only one choice.

-

I didn’t stop to mull it over.  I didn’t marvel of the convenience of Morrello’s sudden appearance exactly when I needed him, or how he knew so much about the House, or who this “gentleman source” might have been.  None of that mattered.  What mattered was the quickly-shrinking escape hatch that I had to dive out of or die.  So I dove.

When the House was quiet and all my roommates were asleep, I slipped out of bed, just as I’d done years ago on the night I’d met my friend.  Soundlessly, I packed my clothes and toiletries into my old suitcase.  Everything else I left in place – fugitives traveled light, and I cherished nothing so much as the book I’d already given away.  When all was set, I snuck out of the room.  First, I went to the door leading to the bell tower.  It was locked, still out of bounds so as not to draw suspicion.  I pulled a folded note from my pocket and slipped it under the door, just in case.  _Sorry_ , it said.  _We’ll always be friends._

That done, I crept back the way I came, then went down the stairs to Roger’s office on the first floor.  It was the only place in the House that had a telephone, and thankfully, it was deserted.  Using my hairpin trick, I broke in and climbed into Roger’s enormous desk chair, sinking into the fabric a little.  I’d burned the note Morrello had given me, but I had the number memorized and dialed it without error.

He picked up on the third ring.  “ _Bonsoir_ , this is Thierry Morrello.”

“Were you serious about taking me away?” I whispered without preamble.

He didn’t ask who it was.  “More serious than I’ve ever been about anything.  But you understand what will happen, right? I’m a criminal, and you will be, too.  You won’t be able to back out if you get cold feet – I like you, but the nature of my work means I can’t trust you.  No offense.”

“None taken.  I don’t trust you, either, but I need you.  Like you said, I look out for my own interests, so you can count on me.”

He chuckled.  “Then I shall endeavor to remain a part of your best interests.  Are you agreed?”

“Not yet.  I have a condition.”

He seemed to be expecting that and invited me to name it.  I told him that if I ran away from the House, Roger would make the Program kids find me so he could take me back.  To stop them from finding me (and, by extension, Morrello), I needed to wipe every trace of Hasegawa Chie from the face of the earth.  If they saw me on camera or passed me in the streets, then they wouldn’t know me.  For that to happen, I needed a new face.  “You know a plastic surgeon, right? There’s no way you look that good naturally.  Make him give me a new face, and I’ll do anything you want.”

“Ouch! Children are so brutally honest.  I’ll need to touch up a little and have him hide his signature better next time…all right, you’ve got a deal.  I’ll make you look like me, so that we really will pass as siblings.”

I told him to meet me in front of the cathedral in twenty minutes, then hung up the phone.  I started to hop off the chair, but froze, eyeing the computer.  The day he’d left, L had mentioned a database, one from which his real name was hidden.  Judging from that statement, everyone else connected to the House must have had their real names in there.  We couldn’t know each other’s real identities, but our caretakers had to in case of emergency – like if they ran away.

The computer was in sleep mode only, so I jiggled the mouse and woke it up again, my eyes streaming at the burst of artificial light.  It was password-protected, but I wasn’t worried.  Roger was getting on in years and was hopeless with technology, struggling to operate even a calculator.  I typed in “password”; it let me in.  _Idiot_.

Besides the usual shortcuts to word processors and storage folders, there was one unusual icon in the top left corner, labeled “Data.”  I clicked on it, and a window appeared, showing two boxes.  The right box as empty, and the left was a long list of names.  I clicked on one labeled “Beyond Birthday,” and B’s smiling face appeared in the right box, with some biographical information beneath it.  There was a gold star by his name, indicating his status as the heir.  I clicked with trepidation on “Amir Moez,” and B was replaced with A.  The photo had a red tint to it, and beside his name was the word “DECEASED.”  I shuddered and moved on.

My mood improved when I scrolled down to the end of the list.  Sure enough, “L Lawliet” was not there, and there was nothing referring to L at all.  He really had told me a personal secret, and for no reason other than as a token of our friendship.  I beamed, reveling in my special status.

The smile went away, though, when I found my name.  I clicked on it and brought up my own file.  The star by my name was silver.  The face in the picture looked happy and carefree; I’d forgotten I could even smile that wide.  Without hesitation, I clicked the “Delete” button at the top of the page.  Yes, I wanted to wipe this record.  Yes, I was sure.  One loading bar later, Hasegawa Chie was gone for good, never to be found again.  Just how I wanted it.

For insurance, I copied all the other records onto a flash drive I’d stolen from the computer lab.  Then I put the computer back in sleep mode and left, locking the other side of the knob before shutting the door.  I met no one as I padded through the quiet house, but just in front of the door outside, I felt something latch around my ankle like a manacle.  It took all my willpower not to cry out.  I looked down in a panic, but it wasn’t Roger – it was Nate.  He was hugging my leg so tightly that he nearly cut off the circulation, and the look on his face was one of complete comprehension – and complete betrayal.

I extracted my leg from his grip and knelt down beside him.  “I’m sorry, Nate.  I have to leave.”

He shook his head, wisps of white hair flying wildly.

“I _do_.  If I don’t, I’ll disappear like Big Brother A did.  You don’t want that, do you?”

My eyes started watering, and I impatiently brushed it away.  I wanted to take Nate with me – the thought of leaving him in this lion’s den sickened me – but Morrello had nixed the idea, and at any rate, one fugitive was harder to find than two.  So I steeled my heart, kissed Nate on his forehead, and wrapped him in a tight hug.  For once, he didn’t try to get away.

I let go, turned quickly, and opened the door.  He tried running toward me, but I shut the door in his face.  There was silence for a moment, then I heard soft snuffling sounds through the door.  It was the first time I had ever heard him cry.  Swallowing thickly, I forced myself away.

As I crossed the yard, I looked up at the bell tower, just as I had on my first day.  It was empty now, and nothing moved in the window.  Where was L now? Was he safe? Was he happy – as happy as he could be, anyway? Would he have approved of what I was doing?

I hoped I’d see him again one day.  That day, and only that day, I’d be Hasegawa Chie again.  Maybe I’d smile again, too.

-

END OF NOTE 1


	7. 2.1: Call to Arms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death Note (c) 2003 Ohba Tsugumi and Obata Takeshi. Another Note: The Los Angeles BB Murder Cases (c) 2006 Nisio Isin. All rights reserved.

**Note 2: The Game is Afoot**

**-**

**Chapter 1: Call to Arms**

-April 22nd, 2000-

Morrello could get by on only a little sleep if he had to, but he made it a point to try and get at least a full eight hours’ worth anyway.  The more he slept, he reasoned, the healthier he was, and the healthier he was, the better he looked – clearer skin, brighter eyes, and so on.  For a man in his profession, good looks were a major part of earning his mark’s trust, and nothing put a mark on their guard quite like dark circles and bloodshot eyes.  Plus, the extra sleep gave him more energy and sharpened his mental acuity, other advantages on the job.

“There was an American in the eighteenth century who said it best,” he told me.  “Benjamin Franklin, brilliant fellow, would have made a great con artist if he quit philosophizing.  ‘Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy and _wealthy_ ’.”  This last word made him grin like a cat in an aviary.

“And wise,” I finished after a pause.

He ruffled my hair, a habit he refused to drop no matter how clearly I told him that I despised it.  “If that part worked, _chérie_ , then I wouldn’t need you, _n’est-ce pas_?”

For my part, six hours was the bare minimum I needed to function normally.  That gave me about two hours where I could work without supervision or fear of discovery.

Following the second half of Mr. Franklin’s motto, Morrello got up at six every morning, so I woke up naturally at four, having long since trained my body to no longer need prompting by an alarm.  Silently, I got out of bed, stepped into my favorite fuzzy (and noise-cancelling) slippers, and crept out of my room.  We lived in a spacious and upscale apartment with all our rooms on the same floor, so I didn’t need to worry about being betrayed by a creaky stair.  As I passed the bathroom, I stepped in and flipped on the light.  On the off chance Morrello woke up and noticed that I was not in my room, the bright light and closed door would serve as a nice excuse.  I wouldn’t have to worry that he would knock on the door or call out, either.  Like most men, by foster brother didn’t like to think about women’s hygiene habits, and the word “cramps” sent him running – too fast for common sense, like the thought that there were only so many times a month that excuse could work, to catch up to him.

I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror and jumped, then stifled a curse.  Even six years later, I had a hard time recognizing the face reflecting back at me as _mine_.  Morrello had been as good as his word and called his plastic surgeon friend the moment we touched down in France.  I’d been afraid my request might have been too tall an order, but this surgeon was extremely skilled, but (according to her), my mother’s English blood had given me a good template in my bone structure.  She had given me a number of Morrello’s physical traits – high cheekbones, long straight nose, full lips, and so on – to result of which being a resemblance so strong that we couldn’t be anything else but full-blooded siblings.  Add some blonde hair-dye and some blue colored contacts, and my transformation into an anonymous white European was complete.  I was Camille Morrello now, and Hasegawa Chie was well and truly buried.  No one from my former life would see her in me.  There were days that I didn’t even see her in me.

It was necessary, I told myself again as I turned my back on the mirror and shut the door.  Everyone in Wammy’s House knew what I’d looked like, and it would only have been a matter of time until I passed in front of the wrong surveillance camera.  Now, at least, I had some insurance, an extra layer of security to shield me on the run.

Of course, there was the very real possibility that L himself would be looking for me, too.  In that case, a new face might not be enough to fool him…

Our living room had a door as well, but even with it shut behind me, I didn’t risk turning on a light.  Instead, I felt my way over to the coffee table on which I’d placed my laptop, guided by the blinking light indicating that the computer was in sleep mode.  I grabbed it, curled up in my favorite armchair, and flipped up the lid halfway, so that the light from the screen neither dazzled me nor woke up Morrello.  Only after reaching through the gap and lowering the brightness did I open the laptop fully and go into my email. 

As the architect of our little scam, Morrello was the first and last word on how we conducted business.  He was the one who had set up the email account, he was the one who had surreptitiously gotten the word about us out through his secret channels, he was the one who communicated with the clients, and, of course, he decided which cases to accept.  His criterion was simple: only those rich enough to afford his exorbitant fees would have their justice.  It was a disgusting and cancerous philosophy, but I knew better than to protest.  Morrello treated me well enough, but he held no personal affection for me; all he needed was someone smart enough to solve the cases.  If I kicked up too much of a fuss, I’d be out on the streets and at the mercy of my pursuers.  So I swallowed my tongue and took the cases I was given without complaint…then waited for night to fall.

As our fame slowly grew in the secret networks of the underground, more and more cases started to pour in, with a few requests from less-wealthy petitioners seeping in among the flow.  “Spam,” Morrello called it jokingly, and would hit the Delete button as soon as it was obvious he was dealing with a mere mortal.  What he didn’t know was that I had made a few tweaks to the account.  Now, a deleted email was not destroyed, but forwarded to a second server, one only I could access and that no hacker could penetrate (a fact I’d tested by challenging the world’s top hackers, none of whom even broke through the first firewall).  My intermediary may have only been interested in money, but Eraldo Coil himself gave justice to all who asked.

 _Eraldo Coil_ …the name had been my idea.  I’d mulled over quite a few contenders, but that one sounded the most like a detective’s, not to mention the most Holmesian.  The personal name was an Italian corruption of the English Harold, meaning “leader of an army,” an idea which I rather liked.  The name was uncommon enough to be memorable, but not too rare as to seem suspicious.  It was exclusively masculine, too, a flimsy yet effective curtain for me to hide behind.  People believed only what they wanted to believe; if a nameless and faceless person, particularly one in a male-dominated industry, said they were male, then there was no reason to argue.  As for the surname, that curtain was even flimsier.  With the Wammy means of identification being what it was, there was always a risk of using a name beginning with my designated letter.  Still, I liked the word “Coil.”  It gave me the image of myself closing in on and surrounding a criminal, like some great boa constrictor.  And who knows – maybe there was a part of me that did want to associate the genius C with the detective Coil.  I had my pride, too.

I’d taken care of the previous week’s cases the night before, so the only pending requests were the four emails Morrello had deleted today.  Three of them were missing persons cases, two spouses and one child.  Eraldo Coil specialized in such cases, owing to Morrello expertise in human behavior and psychology and my own perspective as a fellow fugitive (for what it was worth, I had yet to find a client’s loved one hiding in a box in an embassy janitor’s closet).  The last one was a murder, and according to the client, the case had been both petitioned to and rejected by L.  That was not surprising.  L was still regarded in all circles as the superior detective, but he only accepted cases in which he was “personally interested.”  No one quite knew what that meant, but every case which I could confirm that he had taken involved at least ten bodies, or $10,000.  These high standards irked me; I knew he was kinder than that, and even if he wasn’t, wouldn’t a mind like his jump on every problem it came across, no matter how quickly the problem could be solved? Maybe he was doing what I did – taking smaller cases secretly.  I hoped as much, at least.  He didn’t strike me as the type to let justice go unserved just because the case wasn’t hard enough.

My own cases weren’t all that challenging tonight, either, and I managed to work through all four of them within ninety minutes.  Smiling in satisfaction, I sent a quick reply to each of the four clients, detailing where each runaway could be found (and, for the fourth, the identity of the murderer) and informing them that the only fee I required would be confirmation that the runaways made it home safely (and that the murderer was arrested successfully).  Then I out the computer back to sleep, returned it to the coffee table, and stretched out my arms and legs, brimming with a sense of a job well done and wondering if I could still snatch a few more winks before the day began in earnest.

No sooner had the thought crossed my mind than I heard a loud thump coming from further within the apartment, followed by the quick and heavy thudding of running feet.  I groaned, mourning my extra sleep, but then realized what I was hearing.  Now that his ex-girlfriend and son had relocated to Rouen, Morrello and I were the only ones living here, and he never ran out of bed as he was doing now.  Not only that, but it was still a half hour too early for him to be up.  Something was very wrong.

My theory was proved when a white-faced Morrello burst into the room.  His dressing gown had not been tied, day-old stubble was still on his cheeks, and his hair was wild and tangled.  He would never allow himself to be seen in such a state, even by his “family,” in normal circumstances.

“Good, you’re up,” he said shortly, barely looking at me.  “Turn on the TV.  We’ve been attacked.”  He went straight for the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of wine off the shelf without reading the label.  Then he poured it into a glass up to the rim and drained half of it in one gulp.

I fumbled for the remote.  “What do you mean, attacked?” Had our identities been discovered? I’d been so careful, I didn’t see how they could be.  Or had L…?

“There was a terrorist attack in Rouen.  Some sort of bioweapon, I dunno.  Death toll’s already in the thousands.”  His eloquence was slipping, and not from the wine; he was more distressed than I’d ever seen him. 

A cold pit formed in my stomach.  _Rouen_.  “Amélie and Jean-Luc –”

“Both safe, thank God.  I just got off the phone with Amélie, they’re both visiting her mother in Calais.”  He topped off his own glass of wine and poured a second one for me without asking.

I sighed in relief, and my nerves calmed enough for me to finally work the remote.  We’d left it on a variety channel the night before – Morrello had a weakness for celebrity gossip – but there was an emergency broadcast showing now, the station apparently having piggybacked on the feed from one of the major news outlets.  At just after midnight the night before, the talking head reported, some sort of explosion went off in downtown Rouen.  The blast had caused no property damage, and there were no traces of either the bomb or the bombers left behind.  However, a dense fog had settled over the scene, the night having previously been clear and warm.  When the first responders went in, they emerged with red and weeping sores erupting over their exposed skin and blood streaming from their orifices.  They died in agony within minutes.  That was only a small fraction of the responders; the rest had not emerged from the fog, simply succumbing to this sudden attack where they stood.  That was bad enough, but now, the fog was spreading from the site and was settling over the whole city.  Ordinary citizens were breathing in the toxic chemical – for a chemical it surely was.  By the time Morrello and I tuned in, over five thousand people, including young children, had died.

We huddled on the couch for hours, gobbling up every scrap of news the media threw at us.  Morrello’s wine bottle grew emptier and emptier.  I didn’t blame him – the close shave his family had gone through must have shot his nerves.  My own glass, however, went untouched, as I needed all my wits about me.  Unbidden, my brain was already stretching out in a thousand different directions, viewing the tragedy as another Wammy test, another problem to consider and solve and move on from.  Old habits died hard.

Obviously, this was no accident.  There were no chemical plants or major research labs in Rouen, which meant that the fog was from a bioweapon and that the explosion had deliberately been set off by a terrorist.  The media had gotten that much, right, at least.  What sort of terrorist, then? What was the motivation? Nothing political, or else they would have gone for Paris.   By that same reasoning, the culprit had never wanted to do something on a grand scale – Rouen was big, but not big enough for wanton destruction.  Was it a test? A trial run for a larger attack? In that case, Paris probably would be the next target.  Last night at midnight…today was Earth Day.  It was too early to say, but it didn’t look like the plants and animals around Rouen were affected, just the people.  So the culprits might be ecologically motivated, and were using a weapon that would wipe out the dominant species while not harming the environment.  But that was too trite, too predictable.  Surely the problem had to be harder than that.  And why hadn’t there been a note at the scene? Why was no one stepping forward to take credit? None of this made any sense…

Suddenly, a rough hand shook my shoulder, shattering my reverie.  “Hello? Mission control to Camille? Are you listening to me?”

Whatever threads I’d been grasping for were yanked beyond my reach as I lost focus.  Indignant of the interruption, I glared at Morrello.  “ _What_ , Thierry? I’m trying to deduce here!”

He pointed at the screen, his pallor even stronger than before.  My eyes followed his finger, and then my heart stopped.  The talking head, the ticker-tape of headlines on the bottom of the screen, the studio – all had disappeared off the screen.  The news broadcast had been cut.  Now, the screen was shining crimson, bright enough to make me squint.  The background was solid, and in the foreground, the letters “M.D.” were floating in a curly white font.  No sooner had I registered this than an electronic voice began speaking.  It sounded robotic and had odd cadence, like a text-to-speech computer program.

“Greetings to you, people of the world,” it said.  “Please allow me to introduce myself.  I am a detective by trade, and my name is Marie Deneuve.” 

Morrello and I exchanged a wary glance.  Marie Deneuve! We knew the name well, having made it a point to research our competitors.  She (if indeed she was a “she”) was yet another anonymous detective, addressing the police of the world behind a screen and voice scrambler just as L and Coil did.  And, just like L and Coil, no one knew Deneuve’s real identity.  The most anyone had been able to come up with was that she was _probably_ a woman, and _probably_ French.  Not even I had been able to find her out – though, to be fair, I’d never tried that hard, as I was wary of tracking down mysterious detectives lest the favor be returned in full.  Plus, I’d never considered and Deneuve all that much of a threat to Morrello’s grift.  She may have accepted more cases than both L and Coil combined, but she was something of a “jack of all trades, master of none,” as it went.  According to gossip, she took far longer to solve her cases than I did, and though she had never steered an investigation wrong, she sometimes could not explain her logic very soundly.  That might have been nothing more than a linguistic barrier, but all the same, it did not inspire confidence.  And now she had hijacked a broadcast on the bioterror attack.  There was only one reason why she would do that, and given her credentials, it may not have been the best idea.

I was not disappointed – or rather, I was immensely disappointed, but theory was correct.  “I shall get straight to the point and not waste valuable airtime,” Deneuve was saying.  “For reasons which ought to be obvious, I am reluctant to reveal my name and face to the public, but I can tell you that certain sharp-minded colleagues of mine were correct in their assumption that I was born in France.  By now, I am certain that all of you have learned of the devastation that has occurred in my home city of Rouen.  My heart breaks for my countrymen.  Furthermore, it is my understanding that the local police have yet to find any leads as to the culprit.”

“Well, and how could they?” Morrello muttered.  “The whole city’s been infected.  They go to the scene, they end up dead.”  I nudged him to be silent, secretly agreeing.  Sure, there were plenty of ways to investigate a crime scene remotely, but nothing was quite as effective as seeing the evidence with your own eyes.  Until that happened, the case would only go round in circles.  Unless –

“That is why I, Marie Deneuve, swear here and now that I will discover who has committed this heinous crime, and see that he is punished!”

There it was.  The announcement.  Honestly, how stupid could you get? She had said “people of the world,” so she must have been broadcasting worldwide.  In other words, the culprit was watching this right now.  Having heard Deneuve’s declaration, no doubt he would go deeper into hiding, and then no one at all would be able to find any clues.  This broadcast was the tactical equivalent of sneaking up on someone while wearing a pink sparkly jumpsuit and shouting “I’m sneaking up on you” through a bullhorn.  Was this idiot a day-one rookie?

But Deneuve wasn’t done yet.  “I sense your skepticism, people of the world, and I understand it.  It is true that this is an extraordinarily unusual and complicated case, and that while I have no small amount of skill, there are detectives who yet more skilled than me.  I am not proud.  I have no need for fame or accolades –”

“Then why are you talking about it on TV?” Morrello countered.  I shushed him.

“– All that matters to me is that this murderer – for a murderer he is – is brought to justice.  That is why I shall now issue an open invitation to he who is called the world’s greatest detective.”  The computerized voice rose in volume to simulate determined shouting.  “L! You’ve sat on the sidelines long enough.  Come forth, and let us solve this case together!”

Time stopped.  The pre-dawn noise from the streets below snapped off as effectively as if a remote control had muted it.  I waited, blood roaring in my ears, heart beating a painful tattoo on my ribcage, for the voice that I knew would never back down from a challenge, no matter how trivial or inappropriate the circumstances.

It came, not in fire or thunder, but a low and flat murmur.  “I’m afraid I must disappoint you, Madame.”  The voice was disguised with a synthesizer, but unlike Deneuve’s voice, it was unquestionably real – and unquestionably L.  Hearing it brought my heart to my mouth.  Six years melted away, and we were on the swing set again.  _It’s really you…_

In the blink of an eye, the screen changed.  Crimson became white, curled became Gothic, and M.D. became L.  The same picture I had glimpsed in the bell tower all those years ago was now streaming live all over the world.  The hack had been incredibly quick, too quick even for my practiced hand to accomplish.  Either L was just that good, or he’d been waiting for an invitation to join the feed.  Perhaps both.

“I’m afraid it goes against my nature to collaborate with those outside the authority of the police,” he said.  “If I am to join you in solving this case, it would be as a competitor rather than a comrade.”

A wave of static blurred the screen, and when it cleared, the picture had split into two screens, Deneuve’s emblem on the right and L’s on the left.  “I expected as much,” Deneuve admitted.  “As I said, all that matters to me is that the murderer is found.  Since the probability of this occurring increases the more people search, I do not object to making this a competition.  Just know, L, that I shall be the victor in this.”  At this last sentence, the voice sounded almost smug.

L’s synthesizer, on the other hand, sounded as monotone as ever.  “Is that so? Forgive me for observing that the likelihood of your scenario is less than twenty percent.  I admit that you have some skill, but at best, you can only be considered third-best among all the detectives of the world.  There will be no challenge in a contest between the two of us, as the gap between us is too great.  To truly make this interesting, as well as increase our chances of solving the crime, we must have the one between us join, as well.  We must have the second-best detective.”

My heart stopped again.  The room suddenly seemed very small, and very cold.  _Christ, no, not now, not when everything was going so well…_

L raised his voice in a commanding call.  “I know you can hear me, Eraldo Coil.  Step forward, on your pride as a detective.”

“Eraldo Coil has no pride,” Deneuve piped up in what was almost a jeer.  “He cares only for money, not the suffering of the helpless.”

“Oh-ho, is _that_ how it is?” Morrello crowed beside me.  I jumped at the sound of his voice; for a moment, I had quite forgotten he was there.  “Well, Mademoiselle, how d’you like this?” Before I could stop him, he snatched up my laptop, woke it out of sleep mode, and furiously began clacking at the keys.  Too late, I remembered that while I may have done most of the computer work of the investigations, he was no mean hacker himself.

“Thierry, _no_!” I cried out, voice cracking in fear.  I dove for the laptop, but he held it up out of my reach.

“We can’t let them slander us like that!” he said.  “If this goes unanswered, then the public will lose confidence in us.  We’ll never get another client again!”

“Will you stop thinking about money for once? This is my _life_ we’re talking about here!” If I got involved with L, and he started investigating me…

Morrello scoffed.  “Don’t be melodramatic.  I told you I’d protect you, so I will.  All you need to do his solve the case first, right? Here we go!” One more flourish at the keyboard, and the television screen was split into three equal parts, with L’s and Deneuve’s emblems up top and my own – a gold E.C. in a plain font on a green background – at the bottom.

“Please don’t,” I begged in a whisper.

But it was too late – Morrello had already activated our own voice-scrambling program and was speaking into the microphone.  “You two sure are making a lot of noise for a Saturday.”  His words played back through the TV, no less relaxed or easygoing through the voice scrambler.

“How nice of you to join us, Eraldo Coil,” L said.  “I take it you have accepted Deneuve’s challenge as well?”

To Morrello’s credit, my words might not have entirely fallen on deaf ears.  “I don’t see why I should.  Don’t you think you’re being a little disrespectful to the victims? This is a serious investigation, not some playground pissing contest.”

“Since when have you ever cared about respecting the victims?” Deneuve countered.  “You’ll only take a case if it pays well, and never mind the impoverished who suffer just as deeply, if not more.”

“Hey, I’ve gotta eat, too,” Morrello responded breezily.  “But between friends, sure, let’s say I only care about money.  That gives me even _less_ motivation to measure dicks – begging your pardon, ma’am.  It’s not like you’re paying me for kicking your asses, so what’s in it for me?”

Deneuve laughed in derision, but L was as unruffled as ever.  “Mr. Coil raises a valid point, Madame.  There is no point to a contest that cannot be won.  Considering the nature of this broadcast, and our very public declaration of intent, I imagine that the two losers would be greatly humiliated upon their failure, and that they would be held in such little esteem that they would never be allowed to take another case.  Therefore, I make this suggestion: let the winner of our contest receive the titles and benefits of the other two, and thus truly become the world’s greatest detective.”

My mouth fell open.  The titles and benefits? Then, if I won this contest, would I become L? Here was the ultimate dream of my childhood, within my grasp at last! Nothing in the world would have made me sicker than this prospect did.  Six years of freedom and my own business as a detective had not done anything to reverse the opinion that I was incapable of succeeding L.  If anything, my convictions were only stronger.  More than that, the losers would no longer be detectives.  Risking my own practice was one thing, but L had spent his entire life as a detective.  It was all he had devoted himself to.  What did he have, if not that? How could he live with the humiliation? My mind flashed back to the bathtub at the House, but this time, it wasn’t Amir that I saw.  My stomach churned, and for a second, I thought I was going to throw up. 

“I accept your terms,” Deneuve said, sounding very far away.  Was that the TV, the microphone, or my ears?

“Fine by me,” Morrello added.  “I look forward to making use of your resources.”

“Shall we put the time limit at three days? That ought to be more than enough time for detectives of our caliber.” 

“Agreed.”

“Ditto.  L, Deneuve – race you to the finish line!” He cut the connection, and the Coil emblem was replaced with static.

“Very well.  May the best man win.”  L, too, cut the connection.

“Do not trouble yourself.  _She_ will.”  Now the entire picture turned to static, then was replaced by the network’s Technical Difficulties banner as the station tried to get control of itself.

Morrello snapped the computer shut and beamed up at me with that charming smile of his.  “Well, _chérie_.  Feel like breaking some hearts today?”

I sat down and drained my glass of wine in one gulp.

There was no doubt that L would start investigating me, and Deneuve, too.  That was the only way to gain an advantage over an opponent – find out all you could about them.  I, too, would have to start investigating Deneuve.  My only hope was if I found out Deneuve’s identity first, and blackmailed her into keeping silent – no, that was no good.  That wouldn’t stop L, and there was no way I’d reveal to the world anything I knew about him, under any circumstances.  He may have been my doom, but he was also my friend.

So there was only one thing to do.  I had to solve the case myself, before the others, and so gain enough power to control my own fate.  I had to win this detectives’ war, or be sent in failure back to the House.  I had no other choice. 


	8. 2.2: Nine to Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death Note (c) 2003 Ohba Tsugumi and Obata Takeshi. Another Note: The Los Angeles BB Murder Cases (c) 2006 Nisio Isin. All rights reserved.

**Chapter 2: Nine to Five**

Three days was not a lot of time for a case of this scale, so we needed to work fast. The ideal would have been to investigate the scene where the bomb went off directly, but the entire city was shut down until the miasma dispersed, and that didn’t look like it was going to happen until after the deadline had passed.  So, the only viable investigation method was remote speculation via computer, the method my now-rivals had perfected, and which I despised.

The very beginning of an investigation was always the hardest part.  It was all too easy to, as Conan Doyle put it, “make bricks without clay” – that is, get so lost in speculation and conjecture that the facts are completely ignored, forgotten, or reshaped to fit what the detective thinks the solution _ought_ to be.  At the moment, there were very few facts about this case readily apparent, but there were enough to lay a foundation.  It was a fact that there had been an explosion in Rouen.  It was a fact that the explosion had released a biochemical agent.  It was a fact that when a human being made contact with the agent (the exact nature of the contact was unclear, but through the respiratory system seemed the most likely – I would save that for my conjectures phase), the effects were fatal.  It was a fact that 58% of the population of Rouen had already succumbed to the virus, and that the death toll was climbing.  Following that logic and not accounting for later deaths, about 42% of the Roueners were not affected.  Was it simply that they had not made contact with the agent, or were they immune? If the latter, then the agent was acting somewhat like a virus, infecting those whose immune systems were insufficient protection, or who had developed some sort of antibody. 

 _Virus_ …it was certainly no virus I had ever heard of.  What sort of bacteria made people weep blood and break out in pustules within ten seconds of exposure? Still, judging by the large number of unaffected Roueners and the fact that only humans were affected, it was more likely to be a virus than a chemical weapon.  And if that were the case, then whoever carried out the attack would have needed to develop an entirely new microorganism in order to produce the desired result.  The culprit either had intimate knowledge of and ingenious skill in genetic mutation and the human body, or commissioned someone who did.  Statistically speaking, the latter was the more likely possibility.  It was also more likely that the lab that had developed the virus was in France, since genetically-engineered microorganisms have a very short shelf life. 

France had only one public research facility devoted to human health and medical research: L’Institut National de la Santé et de la Recherche Médicale, or INSERM.  It was right here in Paris, and (wonder of wonders) one of the bodies recovered from the scene was on its way there.  Investigate INSERM, and I’d find the virus.  If I found the virus, then I’d find who developed it.  If I found who developed it, then I’d find the mastermind.  And if I found the mastermind, then I would win.

There was no time to waste; knowing L, he would have come to a similar conclusion long before I did (or else an entirely different, more correct one, which I hoped wouldn’t be the case this time).  Fortunately, I had a slight advantage over the other two.  As far as I knew, Deneuve was operating on her own, and though L had a vast network of resources, he had only one in-person contact at his disposal: the shadowy and faceless “Watari” who acted as an intermediary between L and the police of the world.  If my hunch was right – and I didn’t see how it couldn’t be – then Watari’s real identity was that of a sixty-something inventor whose main task at L’s side was glorified babysitting.  There were limits to what a person like that could do in an investigation.  On the other hand, even though I had to shelter in place, I had Thierry Morrello as my arms and legs – Thierry Morrello, who was capable of getting anyone to open up to him, possessed higher-than-average intelligence, was familiar with my investigative methods, and recognized that doing exactly as I said benefited him in the long run.  In short, he was the ideal resource, and I intended to make full use of him. 

The first step was inventing a backstory.  Hacking into the database of the Police Nationale was worryingly easy, and it took only fifteen minutes to create Inspecteur Giles Dubuge, ten-year veteran and recent transfer from the Nice branch.  Creating a fake badge took even less time, and Morrello already had a uniform in his stash of costumes, a leftover from a recent sting.  The world sure is a scary place. 

Before sending him off, I gave him my glasses.  They were one of Mr. Wammy’s inventions, sold in a black market auction.  I had snatched them up as soon as I could verify the authenticity.  Their value was not strictly sentimental – they were also made with a special camera in each lens, indestructible and undetectable.  Such technology was only just beginning to be phased in to international intelligence organizations, and at nowhere near this quality or effectiveness.  With the glasses, I’d be able to see all that Morrello saw from the safety of the apartment, and with the addition of an earwig and a microphone within a false tooth, I could hear and speak to him, too.

Streaming the glasses-feed live on my laptop, I watched Morrello stroll into the INSERM lobby, show the receptionist his bade, complement how the color of her dress brought out her eyes, and ask to be taken to the lab where the infected body was being examined.  As it turned out, my hard work creating the badge was for nothing, as the receptionist was too heart-eyed to even check his credentials.  She insisted upon personally escorting him to the lab in question, and their flirting en route was so intense that I actually had to turn off the microphone until the receptionist had skipped back to her station. 

Thankfully, the medical examiner was male and suffered from no more than the usual level of awe at Morrello’s charm.  He remarked curiously that he wondered why “Dubuge” did not arrive with the earlier group of inspectors (a moment which made my heartbeat falter), but he did not think on it too deeply and showed the results of his autopsy readily enough.  The corpse of the victim, a previously-healthy woman in her thirties, was still infected with the vestiges of the virus, so the M.E. had had to conduct his examination while wearing a hazmat suit.  He had yet to determine whether cause of death was loss of blood from internal hemorrhaging or the sudden sharp rise of the core temperature – the two seemed to be simultaneous.  Whatever compound had entered her body, it clearly worked fast.  The examiner had also noticed a higher-than-average concentration of white blood cells, which he speculated the body had released in order to fight off the infection.  What’s more, he managed to find a surviving cell from the compound in the victim’s lungs and had conducted a little study of it.  I was right: it was a virus, it did enter the body through the respiratory system, and it had been manufactured in a lab – at Morrello’s questioning, the examiner admitted that such a genetic sequence was impossible for nature to produce.  The attack had indeed been engineered bio-terrorism.

While they spoke, I turned half my attention to Morrello’s laptop (which I’d commandeered for the investigation) and did a little info-gathering of my own.  INSERM’s servers were a little more secure than those of the Police Nationale, but they too eventually surrendered their secrets.  As a public research facility, INSERM kept a log of which researcher or visitor reserved which lab, and for how long.  Over the past two years, a researcher named Emile St. Laurent had booked the same bioengineering lab for private use at least four times a week (increasing to every day as time went on), staying for at least six hours at a time.  This was a drastic change from his habits prior to two years ago – before, he would book the less-technologically advanced labs only once every few weeks, and he never blocked access by other researchers.  A quick peek at his bank account (France as a whole really needed a tech check) revealed a monthly increasing to the tune of 250,000 francs.  Clearly, Dr. St. Laurent was working on a commissioned project and being paid very handsomely. 

As soon as Morrello was free of the medical examiner, I gave him a summary of my findings.  He immediately went back to the receptionist’s desk and asked to speak with Emile St. Laurent.  He wasn’t in the lab today – for the first time in two years, I noted with suspicion – but he was in his research cubicle, and the receptionist was able to summon him to the lobby.  The man looked rather twitchy and frail, and his pallor only worsened when Morrello showed his badge.  Something to hide, then.  To gain his trust (and because we couldn’t take him to a police station, for obvious reasons), Morrello escorted him to his private rooms (one of many apartments he kept for his various grifts) in order to carry out the interrogation.  St. Laurent remained stubbornly mum at first, but the patented Morrello charm combined with INSERM’s log and his own bank account were enough to break him. 

Two years ago, he confessed, he’d been approached in his research cubicle by a man calling himself “Monsieur Carson.”  Fake, obviously.  St. Laurent described him as being about six feet tall, in his late twenties or early thirties, of Asian ethnicity, and wearing his black hair long enough that it brushed his shoulders.  He spoke French well enough, but he had a distinct British accent.  He wore a very well-tailored and expensive-looking suit, and his bearing struck St. Laurent as that of a businessman.  Monsieur Carson had apparently been rather impressed with St. Laurent’s doctoral thesis into genetically engineering antibodies and was curious whether the procedures would create a virus.  In particular, he wanted a virus that was fast-acting, violent in its symptoms, repellant to antibodies, and absolutely fatal to those unlucky enough to contract it. 

The request, and in particular the last condition, had naturally greatly disturbed St. Laurent, but fifteen years at INSERN had brought him very little success, and his grants had been canceled due to lack of results.  The hefty fee Carson offered, as well as the flattery he had heaped upon the dissertation, were enough to overcome his trepidations.  He had therefore spent the past two years working on the virus, only coming up with a viable specimen a month ago.  He had sent the genome to Carson via encrypted email, accepted the last (and largest) of his payments, and thought no more of the affair…until the attack on Rouen this morning.  Discerning the connection immediately, he had gone to INSERN to destroy all traces of his research and was planning to flee the country when Morrello arrived to question him.

As St. Laurent broke down in sobs, I turned back to my own job.  The security footage from the floor where St. Laurent had his cubicle had been wiped, but there were other ways to track down the mysterious Monsieur Carson.  My exile in France had not been solely dedicated to finding the lovers of the upper-classes; I’d also managed to develop an algorithm that could simultaneously screen every security camera within a certain radius based on a set of conditions.  Each time the unlucky doctor reported a physical trait, I entered it into the software, starting the search as soon as it was clear St. Laurent could remember no other identifiers.  Image after image of crowded city streets and deserted dark alleys flashed across my laptop screen as the program narrowed down suspects.  Then, after twenty minutes, the screen froze on a single image from La Défense, then zoomed in on a single face in the crowd.  Quickly, I isolated the image and sent a copy to Morrello’s phone.  A moment later, I heard the ding of his notification tone and turned my attention back to the feed from his glasses.

“Monsieur St. Laurent, do you recognize this man?” Morrello asked, holding out the phone.

St. Laurent looked up, eyes still red and streaming, and squinted at the screen.  Then his face turned pale and his eyes widened.  “Th-That’s him!” he replied, pointing at the image with a shaky finger.  “That’s Carson!”

I leaned back in my chair and, despite the situation, indulged in a little smile.  Check.

-

According to his driver’s license (the official copy of which I obtained in seconds), the man I’d picked out from the security camera was named Lind L. Tailor.  He was a third-generation British citizen, the scion of Japanese immigrants.  He had also obtained French citizenship two years ago, so that he could accept the post of Paris branch manager for an English environmental consulting firm called Blue Ship.  The company had made its fortune producing ecologically-friendly plastic products and non-lethal insect repellants, but its real claim to fame was its experimentation with sustainable, natural living within an enclosed environment – in other words, bio-dome technology.  For that reason, as one can imagine, Blue Ship’s stock greatly increased after the attack in Rouen.

“There’s the motive, then,” Morrello said with a self-confident smile.  “Engineer a natural disaster, promote your safe little moon base or whatever it is, and watch the money roll in.  I should’ve thought of that years ago.”

“Please don’t tell me you would’ve killed half a city just to make money.”

“Of course not.  Maybe an eighth.”

I rolled my eyes.  “Anyway, don’t jump to conclusions.  That’s a possible motive, sure, but not the only one.”

Tailor had been inspired to enter the environmental protection industry after a childhood tragedy – the river running through his small town had been polluted by runoff from a factory upstream.  Several of the townspeople died from drinking or swimming in the poisoned water and eating the fish from the river, and Tailor’s younger sister was among them.  It was very likely that Tailor blamed human industry and/or folly for her death.  In addition, according to reports from Morrello’s informants, it seemed that the man had no friends, no romantic partner or children, and no inclination to change any of that.  He was a cold and impatient man, scowling at everyone and reserving his smiles only for small animals.  A misanthrope, then.  Perhaps he had developed the virus in order to wipe out humanity, thus preserving the safety of the planet by returning it to its natural, pristine state.

Clichéd.  Predictable.  Pathetically stupid.  Either Tailor was far more of an idiot than I’d thought, or there was something else going on here.  And why had he, the supposed mastermind, gone to St. Laurent himself?

We abandoned St. Laurent to the care of the genuine Police Nationale (making sure to leave before the detectives started asking Morrello dangerous questions) and turned our focus to Tailor, who was still in Paris – either too innocent or too confident.  Morrello exchanged his police uniform for tourist garb (cargo shorts, sneakers, I Heart Paris shirt, oversized camera around his neck, ball cap, etc.) and set out to tail our suspect, calling a few of his associates for backup.  I was left alone in the apartment again, pacing the floor like a caged animal.  Armchair work didn’t suit me.  This time, I didn’t even have the glasses as a viewpoint.  Morrello thought the glasses would have made him too easy to spot; if L or Deneuve noticed the resemblance between Inspecteur Dubugue and the tourist with Tailor, they’d immediately pick up the link and overtake us in the contest.  I didn’t bother suggesting that L, at least, probably had known the link before we did – I had no illusions as to exactly where I stood on the totem pole of anonymous international consulting detectives – and instead let Morrello swap our his spyware for sunglasses.

He returned a little before midnight, looking sweaty and irritated.  “He made me,” he explained, dropping down into his chair.  “Followed him around all night with no problem, but as soon as that little bastard shows up –”

“Little bastard? What little bastard?”

He explained that Tailor had left his office at around eight-thirty (as reported by one of Morrello’s associates in the guise of a janitor) and had afterwards wandered aimlessly around the city for a few hours.  He had seemed nervous and looked behind him frequently, but Morrello managed to avoid his gaze.  At around eleven, Tailor had suddenly started walking with purpose, ending up at a café off the main streets.  The place closed at midnight, and when Morrello peeked surreptitiously through the windows as he passed, he saw only one patron: an African boy about thirteen.  Not wanting to draw attention to himself by entering the café, Morrello parked himself at a bench across the street and pretended to rifle through his backpack for a lost item while trying to observe Tailor through the window.  There was no way he could’ve taken a picture in such plain view, so he had to describe it to me relying on memory alone.

“I couldn’t see too much, but Tailor definitely sat down at the same table as the kid,” he assured me.  “They had the table set up so that Tailor was facing me, and all I could see of the kid was the back of his head.  They talked for thirty, forty minutes.  Couldn’t read their lips, but it looked pretty serious.  Tailor was as white as a virgin on her wedding night, and twice as anxious.  From what I saw of the kid, though, he was completely calm.  Tailor kept nodding after he spoke – pretty obvious that he’s deferring to the kid.”

After that, he went on, the kid had jerked his thumb over his shoulder, managing to point right at Morrello without turning his head around to look.  Tailor had looked where he pointed and locked eyes with Morrello.  Knowing he had been recognized, the con man fled before Tailor could come out and confront him.

“So I’m pretty much useless now, since he’s seen my face,” he finished, and then sighed.  “Sorry, _chérie_.  Looks like you’re on your own.”

I barely heard him.  I was too busy digesting the information to answer.  So Tailor wasn’t the mastermind after all.  He, who shunned other people’s company, met with a young boy in a deserted café in the middle of the night.  It was not a social call, and they did not speak as equals, which meant that the boy was definitely giving orders.  A child, intelligent enough to come up with a complex terror attack and resourceful enough to sway a prominent businessman with a grudge against the world to his side.  A child whose actions had caused L to publically declare involvement in the case.  Child.  Intelligent.  L.  Grudge.

 _That kid was at Wammy’s House_.

I couldn’t say how I knew it.  The answer had just popped into my head, as if of its own free will.  If someone had asked me to logically and rationally explain how I’d come up with it, I wouldn’t be able to answer.  But I knew somehow, beyond a doubt, that it was true.

“Jesus Christ,” I whispered, then let out a hoarse little laugh and buried my head in my hands.  Morrello asked if I was all right, but I didn’t answer.  As if it wasn’t obvious anyway.  I’d tried so hard, but the House had caught up with me – not found me, personally, but intruded upon my life once again.  Would I never get away from it? Would I always have those long years looming over me like a border wall, preventing me from escaping?

My oncoming despair was interrupted by a loud chirp from my computer.  I heard Morrello stand up and walk over to the counter where I’d left it – and then let out a cry of alarm.  I looked up and twisted in my seat to see him scrambling for the microphone and voice scrambling software.  And on the computer screen…

“Greetings, Eraldo Coil,” L’s disguised voice said, sounding tinny as it issued from the laptop speakers. 

Morrello at last got everything set up.  “How the hell did you get on my computer?” he snapped, looking pale and genuinely angry.

“Quite simple.  When our esteemed colleague hijacked the feed of the news broadcast, she left a virus that would trace any IP address that piggybacked the signal.  I discerned as much immediately, of course, and disabled it before she could track my location.  I’m surprised you didn’t do the same.”

I bit back a groan.  Of _course_ Deneuve had put a tracker on the signal! It was the obvious thing to do; I would’ve done the same thing. And I’d been too upset by L’s reappearance and the prospect of capture to even consider it.  And now L and Deneuve knew where I was.

Over at the computer, Morrello looked as frustrated as I felt.  The smart thing would’ve been to just cut the connection and make a break for it, but as usual, danger gave him bravado.  “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“Midnight, by your time.  Seeing that one-third of our allotted time has passed, Deneuve thought it might be prudent to share our findings as a group, and I agreed.”

He snorted.  “What, so you can steal my leads? I thought this was supposed to be a competition.”

“First and foremost, it is an investigation.  True victory comes in apprehending the criminals as quickly as possible, before they strike again – and strike again they will.  I’m sure you’ve reasoned this out for yourself already, but the Rouen attack was merely an experiment, meant to test the effectiveness of the bioweapon.  58% of the population succumbed, but there is no doubt in my mind that the real attack will leave no survivors.  Time, therefore, is of the essence.  It seems we’re all in attendance now, so we should start immediately.”

Sure enough, the image on the screen split just as it had done on TV, L’s emblem now sharing the screen with Deneuve’s.  “Sorry to keep you waiting,” said the robotic voice.  “Shall I go first? I’ve made quite a bit of progress today.”

Morrello stubbornly crossed his arms and turned up his nose, forgetting that the others couldn’t see him.  “I’ve got nothing to say to either of you.”

“That’s just as well,” L replied, “since we have nothing to say to you, either.”

One eye twitched. “Excuse me? You called _me_ , remember?”

“I called Eraldo Coil.  Personable though you are, I have no interest is anything an intermediary has to say.”

My heart plummeted down to my toes.  My vision swam, and for a second, I thought I would pass out.  It really was over, now.  From far away, I heard Deneuve say, “Are you telling me that all this time, we _haven’t_ been speaking to Coil?”

“That’s not entirely accurate,” L replied.  “We have been speaking to Coil’s mouthpiece, the same person who has interacted with Coil’s clients from the very beginning and acted as a decoy in case of discovery.  The real Coil – the one who has been solving all the cases – has kept silent in order to protect himself.  However, considering the circumstances of this case and the nature of the investigation, direct contact would be most appreciated.”

Morrello turned around and stared at me, looking like he’d seen a ghost.  His finger hovered over the laptop’s power button, a silent question.  I shook my head.  There was no point in hiding it anymore; if he knew that much, then he must’ve known the rest of it.  Probably, it was only the pressing investigation that prevented him from sending Roger to my door.  I took a few deep breaths, then stood up under my own power and walked stiffly over to take Morrello’s place. 

“Very clever, L,” I said into the microphone.  My voice was scrambled to the same pitch that Morrello’s had, but it sounded smaller and hoarser – the voice of a defeated person.

L sounded just the same as ever.  “We meet at last, Eraldo Coil.  I’m very pleased to hear your voice at last, as it were.”

His scrambler was still functioning, but I heard only the high-pitched treble of the child I’d known, which was only just beginning to crack when we separated for good.  Suddenly, I was overcome by a need to hear it again, no matter the consequences.  Tears of homesickness started brimming in my eyes, and I brushed them away with impatience. 

“Let’s get this over with,” I said gruffly. 

“Very well.  Ladies first, is it? I believe Marie Deneuve had something to say.”

“Many things,” she confirmed, “which all boil down into one: the architect of the Rouen attack was the branch manager of the Paris location of Blue Ship.  An Englishman by the name of Lind L. Tailor.”

I exchanged a glance with Morrello.  Evidently, Deneuve was not quite as green as I’d thought.  How had she done it, though? It couldn’t have been in person, the way Morrello had done; we would’ve noticed another hanger-on.  Had she talked to St. Laurent? No, judging by his behavior, Morrello was the first person to hear his confession, and we’d left him in police custody.  Or did she have someone on the inside?

“Interesting,” L remarked without emotion.  “May I ask your reasoning?”

Deneuve explained, following the same logic I had, how she deduced the chemical agent was a genetically-engineered virus, traced it to INSERM, and identified Emile St. Laurent as the engineer.  “From there, it was a simple matter of discovering his patron.  I simply checked the security footage from Monsieur St. Laurent’s office the day before he reserved the lab for the first time, and so identified Mr. Tailor.”

It was all I could do not to cry out in indignation.  There was no security footage.  I had searched for it myself, and found the camera wiped.  That’s why I’d needed the algorithm.  Deneuve was lying.  Why didn’t she want to disclose her true method? _Or could she be…?_

I’d wanted to remain quiet as long as I could, but perhaps Deneuve would cave under a little pressure.  “Just because St. Laurent and Tailor were seen together on the security camera footage, it doesn’t mean that Tailor was the one who commissioned the virus.  How can you be so sure?”

“Woman’s intuition.”

Morrello snorted, and I shushed him with a gesture.  “Anything a little more concrete?”

“I have something that might solidify things a little,” L piped up.  “I, too, deduced the nature of the chemical weapon, but rather than trace the virus, I traced the explosive device in which it was contained.”

“How did you manage that?” Deneuve asked.  “The crime scene is still infected.  They haven’t been able to remove the wreckage.”

“Letting something like that stop you is why you are only the third-best in the world.”

“H-How dare you –!”

“The device,” L went on, speaking over Deneuve’s protests, “was designed by Blue Ship as a way to release the proper dosage of their insect repellants, modified to accommodate the infectious fog and to release it at large quantities.  Moreover, the device is a next-generation prototype, unavailable to the public at this time.  The only one who could have obtained it was someone connected to Blue Ship.  It would be more usual in such matters to use an underling, but given Lind L. Tailor’s personal history, it seems more likely that he’d be stupid enough to act on his own.”

“S-So you already knew it was Tailor…”  She sounded disappointed.

“What about you, Eraldo Coil?” In my mind’s eye, I saw a pair of big dark eyes fix on me, a fingernail being bitten, a plate of sweets on the table.  The room suddenly seemed very cold.

Grudgingly, I retraced my steps for them.  “But it looked like Deneuve had the advantage over me – I couldn’t find a security tape, or any trace of one, from that day.”

“You give up too easily,” Deneuve said with a hint of smugness in the artificial voice.

I resisted the urge to grind my teeth.  “Considering my lack of _woman’s intuition_ , I thought my time would be better spent speaking to Monsieur St. Laurent directly.”

“Which culminated in you learning about his and Tailor’s involvement, and then turning him into the police, I take it?” L asked.

I blinked, thankful they could not see the look on my face.  “What makes you say that?”

“Emile St. Laurent was in a holding cell at a police station in Paris when he committed suicide by hanging.”

I stood up so fast that my chair clattered to the floor behind me.  “ _What_?”

“Didn’t you know? His guard left him alone to respond to an emergency call, and when he returned, St. Laurent had made a noose with his necktie.  I suspect that he rightly blamed himself for the loss of life in Rouen and was overcome by guilt.”

“Damnation,” Deneuve swore.  “I wish I could’ve spoken to him first.  Now I won’t get my chance to confirm that Tailor commissioned him.”

“Surely you were confident enough to proceed without it? It sounded as much earlier.”

“Well, I certainly didn’t let it sit, if that’s what you were thinking.  I had one of my people shadow Tailor, but he didn’t act suspicious at all.  I’d been hoping for direct evidence, but at the moment, all I have is speculation –”

“Hey,” I interrupted.  “L, Deneuve.  What the hell is wrong with the two of you?”

The line went dead a moment.  “I don’t understand what you mean,” L said after a moment.  Probably doing that head-tilt thing he did, the insufferable bastard.

I leaned in closer to the microphone.  “I mean, _what the hell is wrong with the two of you_? A man just _died_ , because of us and our investigation, and that’s all you have to say? ‘I wish I could’ve spoken to him first’? You can’t say all that stuff about this being an investigation instead of a competition, and then turn right around and spout this bullshit! Damn you, don’t you care at all?”

“Certainly, all loss of life is regrettable,” L said after a moment’s pause.  “Marie Deneuve simply meant that she had lost her opportunity to make use of a valuable resource –”

“This isn’t a game, goddammit! These are people’s lives we’re dealing with here! How long is it going to take you to realize that?”  Unbidden, pictures began popping into my mind, like the security camera feeds on my laptop searching for Lind L. Tailor.  Amir in the bathtub.  B cackling like a madman.  Nate crying from behind a door.  The doctor putting a mask to my face, telling me I’d be a whole new, beautiful person when I woke up.

“Coil –”

“No, I’ve had it.  You guys want to play King of the Mountain, be my guests.  I’m going to do my fucking job.  Which, in case you forgot, is _helping people_.”  Before anyone else could talk, I cut the connection and slammed my laptop shut.  Then I stood silently, breathing hard, muscles tensed as if for flight.

I suddenly felt a hand on my shoulder, and looked behind me to see Morrello frowning at me in sympathy.  “It’s not your fault,” he said in a low voice.  “He would’ve killed himself anyway, as soon as the story got out.  There’s nothing you could have done.”

I shrugged his hand off.  “You’re wrong, but that doesn’t matter right now.  I’ll think about that once the case is solved.”

He jumped in surprise.  “Huh? But what you said just now –”

“– was an excuse to get off the line without arousing suspicion.  Are you absolutely positive that you were the only one following Tailor? There couldn’t have been someone else tailing you?”

He scoffed.  “Give me some credit, kid.  I would’ve known if someone else was on him, and there wasn’t.  What’s the point?”

“The point,” I explained patiently, “is that Marie Deneuve is lying.  She’s lying about seeing Tailor on the tape, she’s lying about following him home, and she’s lying about him being the ringleader.  She wants us to think that way, so that we don’t turn our attention to the _real_ ringleader.”

“You mean that kid?” His eyes widened as he suddenly grasped my meaning.  “Hold on.  Are you saying…?”

I nodded.  “She knows him.  She’s probably been in on it the whole time, misleading us with this stupid contest that _she_ suggested.”

And if that were the case, then it was all too likely that she was from the House herself.


	9. 2.3: One Set of Footprints

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death Note (c) 2003 Ohba Tsugumi and Obata Takeshi. Another Note: The Los Angeles BB Murder Cases (c) 2006 Nisio Isin. All rights reserved.

**Chapter 3: One Set of Footprints**

-April 23rd, 2000-

I had a restless night, trying and failing to refresh my brain with sleep.  All I could focus on were the threads of the case that led seemingly to nowhere, and the more I thought about them, the more confused I became.  The only thing I could say for certain was that Deneuve was helping Tailor’s patron; beyond that, I could treat nothing as fact.  Even the idea that Deneuve had been one of Wammy’s children was mere conjecture, but I figured it to be the most likely scenario.  After all, kids in the Program interacted very little with the outside world and, as a rule, had very few social skills.  If the mastermind had formed a relationship strong enough to be protected, it would have been with his fellow classmate.

What was his endgame, though? Surely someone who had spent their entire childhood under the weight of the Program cared little enough for the environment.  And even if he did, he wouldn’t have needed Tailor’s help to do something about it.  There was some other motive here, something different from Tailor’s and the same as Deneuve’s.  I hadn’t forgotten that, even though L had suggested the competition in the first place, Deneuve had put the idea in his head by summoning him and saying that she didn’t care if she solved the case or not.  Had the mastermind orchestrated a seemingly-unsolvable mystery just for the purpose of elevating Deneuve to the title and recognition she so desperately craved? If so, he was sicker than I’d thought.

If only I could find Deneuve…or better yet, concrete evidence of wrongdoing with which to confront her.  Maybe then, things would start becoming clearer.

Finally, at six in the morning, I crawled out of bed and trudged back to the living room.  Nearly twenty-four hours had passed since the contest began; I had only two days left to solve the mystery.  If I was too slow, then not only did we run a greater risk of the mastermind going free, but I would also lose compete control.  With all of Coil’s resources in L’s hands, it would become harder to hide from him.  The loss of our practice would mean that Morrello would have no further use for me, which meant I would be out on the streets.  In the unlikely even the Deneuve proved the victor – or even if she wasn’t, and simply acted out of bitterness and humiliation – then it was possible that she might reveal the IP address she had traced, giving L an exact location from which he could trace me.  And I wasn’t going to lie and say my professional pride wasn’t a factor.  In short, losing was not an option.

The living room was still empty – Morrello must have been exhausted from his exertions the day before, and was indulging in some extra sleep.  It was no great loss, as his slip-up yesterday meant that I couldn’t use him as a tail anymore.  Even if I could, I had no idea who he was supposed to tail in the first place.  Impotent and frustrated, I brought up my private email server, more out of habit than anything else.  Something occurred to me, and I performed a quick security scan, then groaned at the results.  Someone had hacked in, leaving hardly any trace behind them.  They hadn’t sent or received anything, but they had gone through the archives and read many of my emails to clients.  Here, then, was how L knew that there were two Coils; the writing style of the emails was different from the speech pattern of Morrello’s persona.  Very clever.  I resolved to try and more closely match Morrello’s Coil in the future.  If there even was a future.

It was then that I noticed the inbox.  I’d been so focused on the scan that I hadn’t noticed, but someone had sent me an email just a few minutes past.  I didn’t recognize the sender, and the body of the email didn’t indicate a client.  I read it slowly, blood roaring louder and louder in my ears with every word:

_Dear Mr. Coil,_

_As soon as you get this, please hack into the Funny Dish servers and request a video call in the fifth listed private chatroom.  I have something very crucial to say to you, and I cannot risk a public connection known by L.  Believe me when I say that lives depend on it._

_I’ll be waiting,_

_Marie Deneuve_

I read it twice more for good measure, then leaned back in my chair, heart pounding and mind on fire.  I’d wanted to confront Deneuve, and now the opportunity was in front of me.  Should I take it? Deneuve could have been a criminal and was most definitely a liar.  Still, I didn’t see how I could fall into any sort of trap – it wasn’t like I was meeting her in public, after all.  As long as I kept the emblem screen up and put the voice scrambler on, there would be no way for her to discern my identity.  If nothing else, I would lose no ground in the investigation by talking privately with a rival.  Maybe she could even clear some things up for me. 

Having made my decision, I brought up my web browser and followed the email’s instructions, breaching the server in less than two minutes.  Clicking on the indicated link, despite the private setting, brought me into the chatroom without a fuss – Deneuve must have made it that my IP address would be bypassed.  There was one person in the chatroom, marked MD2425.  I brought up the voice scrambler and activated the Coil emblem screen, then requested a video chat.  Within seconds, the call was picked up, and a window popped up on screen.  What I saw stopped me short.

Deneuve had not put up her own emblem screen.  Instead, the call window was streaming live from a web camera, and I could see very plainly the person in front of it.  Or rather, the people – there was not one but two women huddled in front of the computer screen.  They were both in their mid-teens and both Asian, perhaps Chinese.  They looked like they were about the same height, too, and both wore their hair in ponytails, one on the left side of the head and one on the right.  One was pudgy and wore glasses, and one was stick-thin and had braces, which she showed off to me by smiling nervously.  Behind them, the neutral wallpaper, simple furniture, and large TV screen indicated a hotel room of some sort.

As I watched, struck dumb by shock, the pudgier girl on the right broke into a wide grin.  “That was fast! See, I told you he’d call.”

“W-We didn’t think you would,” the thin girl named Yanyu explained, then ducked her head in a bow.  “Thank you so much.  We really appreciate you trusting us enough to answer.”

There was a long pause in which I tried to absorb what was happening.  Finally, after a deep breath, I asked stiffly, “You know your screen’s off, right?”

“We know,” they said together.

“Okay.  Which one of you is Deneuve?”

“We both are,” the thin one answered.  “By ourselves, we’re not good enough to be detectives on your and L’s level, but together we get by pretty well.  Just like you and the other Coil.”

“You are the real Coil, right?” the pudgy one said, squinting at the screen as though to see through my shield.  “The one who actually solves the crimes?”

“Yeah, that’s me.”  Two detectives working together…that explained the dissonance in their logic justifications.  I should’ve considered the possibility earlier.  “So, do I call you both Deneuve, or…?”

They exchanged a nervous glance, the thin girl looking more anxious than her fellow.  “No,” the pudgy girl said.  “We’ve decided that we trust you, and we’re not going to hide anything from you.  Compared to everything else, our names don’t really matter that much.  You can call me Xiao-Hong.”

“And I’m Yanyu,” the other one added.  “Or, if you prefer, you can call us –”

“X and Y,” I finished before I could stop myself.  I was right, sort of.  Deneuve was a Wammy kid.  They must have entered the Program after I’d left, and judging from what they’d said earlier, they were closer to the bottom of the rankings than the top.  Still, even the least intelligent Wammy kid was still a force to be reckoned with, and these girls hadn’t gotten the title of third-best detective in the world on luck alone.

And now, looking at their wide grins, I realized that they were certainly quick enough to pick up on my screw-up.  “So you _do_ know about the Program!” Xiao-Hong said in triumph.  “And the only person who would know about the Program is a Wammy kid, right?”

I reluctantly admitted that she was right. 

“I knew it! So, you know about the House, but you hate the way it operates, going by your little meltdown last night.  You’re an anonymous detective who appeared six years ago, around the same time that one of the students at the top of the class ran away.  Which would make you…”

“…C, right?” Yanyu finished.  After a long pause, she added, “Don’t worry, it’s not obvious.  We didn’t make the connection until you said you knew about the House, and L mentioned that you were hiding behind another Coil.  He didn’t hear what you said just now, so you’re still safe.”

My pulse, which had been beating at a dangerously-frantic pace, slowed down slightly to something more manageable.  They’d knocked me down, but I was still able to get on my feet again.  I could control the damage a little.  I don’t think these girls gave L the credit he was due, but they were right about one thing: I was safe for the moment, so long as L was distracted by the competition.

Speaking of distractions, something was bothering me.  “When did you two enter the House?”

Shadows flitted across their faces; evidently, whatever improvements Roger had decided to implement had kicked in yet.  “Four years ago,” Yanyu answered.

“After I left, in other words.  So how do you know about me?”

“Everyone knows about you.  You ran away.  A lot of the kids look down on you for that, calling you a coward or a loser for giving up, but we think you’re so terribly brave.”  Her eyes were shining with awe, and I caught another quick flash of her braces as she smiled shyly.

“The old man’s desperate to get you back,” Xiao-Hong continued.  “He’s had all of us working on it, but no one’s even come close to tracking you down.  As expected of the heir, you’re too good for the rest of us mere mortals.”  She bowed in mock-reverence, but it was playful rather than sarcastic. 

“The _heir_?” I echoed, feeling cold dread start to seep into me.  “I’m not the heir, B is.”  They exchanged troubled glances, and the cold dread intensified.  “What’s he done? Hurt somebody? Hurt himself?” I didn’t know which prospect repulsed me more.

“He ran away two months ago,” Yanyu said.  “Gone without a trace, just like you.  But even if he hadn’t, I think you would still…”  She broke off, and her pale face told me everything I needed to know.  B hadn’t improved, either.

“Hey,” Xiao-Hong said in a too-loud voice.  “We just said we know who you really are, right? So take down that screen already.  We trust you enough to show you our faces, so you should do the same.  Fair’s fair.”

I smiled thinly, my lips pressed together.  “You’re right, fair’s fair.  So I’ll be as honest with you as you were with me.  I _don’t_ trust you at all, either of you.  Know how I knew you were from Wammy’s House? Because you were protecting someone else from Wammy’s House.  You lied and said that Lind L. Tailor didn’t do anything suspicious yesterday, but I can tell you that he met with the guy he’s taking orders from.  The _kid_ he’s taking orders from.  A kid that smart and ruthless has to be from the House, right? And, lest we forget, you covered for a criminal who has the blood of _thousands of people_ on his hands.  Which, if I’m remembering my French law correctly, makes you criminals, too.  So, given all that, why the hell should I trust either of you with anything, let alone my face?”

As I’d spoken, their smiles disappeared, and their faces grew paler and paler until they were the color of paper.  Xiao-Hong’s mouth had dropped in shock, and Yanyu’s eyes looked about to pop out of her head.  When I accused them of being criminals, Yanyu burst into tears, and Xiao-Hong put a comforting arm around her shoulders.

Now, she was staring at the camera with a determined look on her pale face.  “Because we’re confessing.  That’s why we called you.  You haven’t figured everything out yet, have you? We’ll tell you all of it.”

That had not been the response I was expecting, and I imagined my expression must have looked as shocked as theirs.  “Why would you do that? And why to me, of all people?”

“Because you were right,” Xiao-Hong said simply.  “What you said last night.  Using people’s lives as game pieces is wrong.  Whatever we wanted before, it’s not enough to justify what we’ve done.”

Her companion, having composed herself somewhat, lifted her head and looked at the camera plaintively with red-rimmed eyes.  “You were in the House just like we were, C, but you’re not like the others.  You’re a good person.  That’s why we know you’ll understand.”

I said nothing, and since I wouldn’t talk, they did.  They told me that they had made their misery obvious at the House, and so were approached by one of their classmates, a boy whom they knew only as Z.  I interrupted them to pass on Morrello’s vague description of the boy in the café, and they confirmed that he was indeed the architect of the plan.  Z, ranked sixth at the time he left the House with X and Y (including myself and B in the numbering), had come up with the entire plan on his own.  Using funds he had raised through means unknown to the girls (but most likely less than ethical, or even legal; there were lots of ways for a genius to make money), he had gone to Lind L. Tailor, having already researched the man’s history and inclinations.  Together, they planned out the Rouen attack, ensuring that the crime would be so severe and so intricate that none but the cleverest and most knowledgeable detectives could discern the answer.  Meanwhile, Xiao-Hong and Yanyu began making a name for themselves as Marie Deneuve, taking one complicated case after the next (and turning to Z if they got stuck), until they were ranked third among the world’s detectives.  Once the attack had been carried out, then the two of them would provoke L into investigating it.

“But L would get the truth of it and find you right away,” I pointed out.  “Why would you deliberately bring him down on you like that?”

“We _want_ him to find us,” they said together.

Right, of course.  They wanted to be face to face with L.  For what purpose? To get what they really wanted.  And what did a Wammy kid want, more than anything else? “Z was going to kill him, and take his place.”

They shook their heads.  “Z wouldn’t have taken his place,” Yanyu said.  “We would have.  That’s why we agreed to help him – as L, we would have enough power to close down the House for good.  We’d be able to help all those poor children, give them the justice they deserve for once.”

“But Z doesn’t care about justice,” Xiao-Hong continued.  “All he wants is to kill L, and kill him himself, too.  He thinks that it’s because L exists that we were treated the way we were.”

“I see.”  Yanyu had been wrong, though – I _didn’t_ understand what any of them were thinking, least of all this Z.  I could follow his logic, certainly, but L was not to blame for what happened to us.  He couldn’t help the way he was, and he hadn’t founded the House himself.  Even I knew the importance of the Program, and what would happen to the world if it was allowed to exist with someone to take L’s place.  Most importantly, L was my friend, the only real one I’d ever had, the only one who knew me as I was.  The thought of someone hurting him made me see red.

So it was somewhat coldly that I asked, “So what do you expect me to do, then?”

Their faces turned hopeful.  “We want you to stop him,” Yanyu said.  “Find him, help him if you can, but take him down yourself, before he hurts anyone else.”

“What, find him myself? Don’t you know?”

She shook her head.  “All we were told was that we had to declare war on L.  We don’t know what the next part of the plan is or how to find Z.  You’re the heir, so you can figure it out.”

“And don’t forget who it was who told you about him,” Xiao-Hong added hotly.  “We know we did wrong, and we’ll pay our debt to society like anyone, but remember that you wouldn’t have figured it out without us.”

“And if you help us,” Yanyu went on, “then we’ll be quiet about this call.  We’ll pretend that you won the contest all on your own, and you can be L.  You’re suited for it – you’re so much smarter than us, and you actually care about people, both the victims and the criminals.”

I couldn’t say anything for a long time; my voice refused to work, so shocked and appalled was I by their suggestion.  When at last I could get my throat working again, it was only to laugh.  “I think you girls have the wrong idea.  Remember what you said about me not being like the other kids at Wammy’s House? Well, you’re right.  Not only am I not capable of succeeding L, but I’m not interested in it.  I’ve got no desire to surpass him or crush him or whatever it is they’re saying now.  If anything, I’d like to walk right next to him, if such a thing were possible.”

The two girls looked at me with mingled awe and wariness.  “So what are you going to do?” Yanyu asked.

“I’ll stop him,” I promised, “but not because of the contest, or because I have anything to gain from it.  I’ll do it on my terms, to stop him from hurting anyone else.”  And, above all else, to save my friend’s life.

-

There was a loose floorboard in my room, under which I kept several pairs of socks.  All but one of them were decoys.  The real one had a flash drive inside it, the one containing the files from the Wammy database that I’d stolen on the night of my escape.  As soon as the call with X and Y ended, I crept back to my room and retrieved it.  I couldn’t remember all that well – I’d had other things on my mind at the time – but a black child called Z, just a few places below me on the rankings, sounded familiar.  Maybe he’d entered the House before I left it, and his file had been in the database.

Remaining in my room to prevent Morrello from peering over my shoulder, I mounted the flash drive and brought up the list of files.  For once, my luck held: there was a Z in the Program at the time, an American named Zebedee Hartwell whose description and age range matched the boy Morrello had seen.  His picture was right there on the first page, and with his facial features at my fingertips, I could make use of my algorithm again. 

This time, though, I was less lucky.  I had no idea how long Z had been in Paris – long enough to monitor the creation and use of the virus, at least – but he’d done a remarkable job keeping his face off of the security cameras.  There were certainly a few viable candidates of the same race, height, and weight, but I couldn’t positively identify them without looking at their faces.  It took eight hours to sort through all the footage from the time St. Laurent had been commissioned, but finally, I found something.  It was, of all things, from yesterday, taken from a camera monitoring the warehouses at the docks.  Z was standing by himself in front of the door to one warehouse, looking straight at the camera for the first time.  He was making no effort to hide himself or blend in.  He simply looked at the lens head on, his expression unreadable.  Then, without taking his eyes off the camera, he slowly backed away and entered the warehouse.  There was no footage of him exiting; for all I knew, he was still inside.

Now there was a trap if I’d ever seen one.  This must have been his plan for L.  He had assumed L would discover his identity as the mastermind, and deliberately let himself be caught on camera entering a supposed hideout.  Then, when L showed up to arrest him, he would carry out his revenge, a den of lions laying in to a lamb.

Provided, of course, that L would investigate the place himself.  I knew he’d never do that so long as he could send someone, like “Watari,” in his place.  Z probably guessed as much, unless there was something else he had planned to lure L out of hiding.  What could it be…?

Well, one lamb was as good as another, particularly if she wasn’t as capable.  Z’s trap would be sprung, all right, but not by the person he’d thought.  Going to the warehouse and getting captured was the only way to face Z that I could think of.  And if I couldn’t stop him myself, and he ended up killing me…well, better me than L.

-

By the time I reached the hideout (having snuck out without alerting my housemate), the sun had set fully, plunging the docks into inky darkness.  The warehouses were closed to public access after dark, so there was no system of lighting, and I had to rely mostly on the memory of the camera image as I stumbled through the rows of structures.  As I walked, I picked up several faint clicking sounds on the breeze.  An uninformed stroller might have simply chalked them up to rattling chains, but I knew guns when I heard them.  Z must have had snipers guarding the place.  They must have been expecting L to show up, because they did not shoot as I went further and further into the complex.  Just in case, I had a Glock-22 pistol concealed in my jacket, but I would have rather avoided using it.  No one else needed to get hurt.

With the schematics of the security system I’d found in the city hall database in mind, I finally managed to find the camera Z had been standing in front of.  From there, the hideout was clearly visible, and I picked my way over to it with no problem.  No guards – Z didn’t want L getting suspicious and running.

Most likely, they were expecting me to behave as one who did not realize she was walking into a trap.  That is, sneaking into the door, gun drawn, looking for evidence of Blue Ship’s guilt.  Since I was forewarned, though, I thought I’d have a little fun.  All intelligent people have a certain ego, and I would have been lying if I said I didn’t want to see the look on Z’s face when he realized I’d anticipated him.  Giggling, I marched right up to the door, casual as you please, and knocked loudly on the door.  There was silence for so long that I was afraid no one was home after all, but then the door slid open with a creak, revealing a ski-masked guard with a shotgun.

I smiled as sweetly as I could, quashing my fear.  “ _Bonsoir_.  Can Zebedee Hartwell or Lind L. Tailor come out to play?”

 


	10. 2.4: Masked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death Note (c) 2003 Ohba Tsugumi and Obata Takeshi. Another Note: The Los Angeles BB Murder Cases (c) 2006 Nisio Isin. All rights reserved.

**Chapter 4: Masked**

The guard relieved me of my gun and dragged me to the very center of the warehouse, where an ordinary wooden chair was waiting under a hanging lamp.  He shoved me down into it, then walked around to the back and wrenched my arms around the chair by the wrists.  They were tied together within seconds with, by the feel of it, some sort of wire.  The knot was too tight and the wire too thick for me to wriggle out of.  I’d slipped a knife into my boot, but even if I could reach it, it would be spotted instantly, so exposed was I in the middle of the floor. 

Outwardly unruffled, I craned my neck and took a look around.  For a secret headquarters, it was rather unimpressive.  There were no stacked boxes of contraband goods, no surveillance system, and no great chart showing the bad guys’ evil plan.  Except for the chair, the warehouse was completely empty of furnishings.  The only thing to distinguish it from any of the other warehouses on the dock was the crowd of men and women lining the walls, all wearing dark clothes and the sorts of masks one would find at a costume ball.  They must have been Tailor’s followers.  The masks and the distance between us shielded their eyes from me, but I could feel their scowls boring into me like so many drills.

One man suddenly stepped forward and approached my chair.  He was masked like the others, but his build and hairstyle marked him as Tailor.  “I hope you’ll forgive us the violent welcome,” he greeted, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

I shrugged, trying not to flinch as the sudden movement pinched the wires around my wrist.  “I’ve had worse.  But I appreciate your consideration, Mr. Lind L. Tailor, head of the Blue Ship Paris branch.”

He started, taking a step backwards as though my words had struck him off balance.  “H-How did you know that?”

I opened my mouth to say something snarky, but a cool, high-pitched voice from somewhere behind me beat me to it.  “Come on, Tailor.  Figuring out something as simple as that should be child’s play for a detective like her.”

He’d been standing in my blind spot, but now he was coming around to face me, a silver briefcase in one hand.  I was expecting a lazy grin or evil sneer, but Zebedee Hartwell’s face was completely blank – no, _purposefully_ blank.  It was a stone wall, not for keeping others out, but for keeping his feelings in.  Morrello had taught me well, though, and I could see the emotional trauma etched into the hollow cheeks, the dark circles, and the wide, darting eyes.  The House had been no kinder to him than it had to me – probably less so, in fact, given what he’d stooped to.  For a moment, my heart went out to him.  Then I remembered St. Laurent and the dead of Rouen, and all empathy evaporated.

“I’ve come to stop you, Z,” I said coolly. 

The corner of his mouth twitched, but it wasn’t enough to break through the stoic mask.  “You’ve got a funny way of going about it.  How exactly do you plan to do that from that chair?”

“Tell you in a minute.  I’m improvising.”

He snorted.  “Improvising? You know, if it were me, I would’ve anticipated this happening and planned for it.  Oh, well.  That’s why you’re only second-best.”

I frowned.  “ _Second_ -best?” Hadn’t this trap been laid for L? They may have been at the House at the same time, but L hadn’t left any trace of his true identity to anyone but me.  So why –?

And then I understood.  “Goddammit,” I said, then put my head back at groaned.  “You two are pretty devious, huh?”

No one moved for a moment, but then I heard footsteps behind me.  I righted my head in time to see Xiao-Hong and Yanyu shuffle into view, looking guilty.  “W-We’re so sorry,” Yanyu whispered, and two fat tears rolled down their cheeks.

“Don’t be,” Z cut in with a shrug.  “You did exactly what you were supposed to.  Granted, I was expecting you to go L instead, but this worked out for the better, so no harm done.”

 _I was expecting_ , is it? So they hadn’t betrayed me on purpose; Z had anticipated that they would lose heart and factor it in to his plan.  This was the real stage two.  That made me feel a little better, at least.  “How much did they tell you?” I asked, keeping my voice light and pleasant. 

“Everything.”  He leaned in closer, and I turned my head away, repulsed by the smell of cheap Indian take-away on his breath.  “All about you, your noble nature – and your true identity.  You know, I wouldn’t have been able to see through that disguise if X and Y hadn’t told me the truth.  Now that I’m up close, though, I can kind of see it.  I like your old face better, though.”  I sensed rather than saw his smile.  “So, how does it feel, being betrayed and lied to by people you trusted with your greatest secret?”

I turned to X and Y, who flinched and averted their own eyes.  Then I smiled.  “They didn’t lie to me.  They really do want me to stop you.  Right?”  Their heads snapped around, and they looked at me with shock, but then hesitantly nodded.

It was not Z who answered this time, but Tailor. His laughter muffled behind his mask.  “Well, you can’t always get what you want in this world.  It’s already too late – as we speak, the perfected virus is on its way here to Paris.  We will purge the planet of its filth, and all you can do is watch!”  His laughter was taken up by his fellows lining the walls.

Z cleared his throat softly.  “Actually, that’s wrong.” 

The laughter abruptly stopped.  Tailor turned to stare at his leader, and I could see his eyes popping through the holes in the masks.  “W-What?”

“You guys can do what you want, but I’m in no mood to die for a cause I don’t care about.  Good thing I won’t have to.”

“I don’t –”

“There is no perfected virus,” Z explained, speaking like Tailor was a child.  “St. Laurent killed himself, remember? There’s no one left who knows the virus’ genome, and even if there was, you can’t make a new prototype after only a day and a half.  The only samples left of the virus are right here.”

So saying, he swung the briefcase up to lay it in the palm of his left hand.  With his right hand, he unfastened the lock and pulled up the lid.  Forty needles gleamed in the low light, filled with a dark and menacing liquid.  I couldn’t stop myself from shivering. 

Once he’d seen that, he put the briefcase on the ground, the contents still clearly visible.  “As you can see, there’s not nearly enough to infect all of Paris, or even a single _arrondissement_.  I’d say they’re only just enough for everyone in this warehouse.”

There were a couple beats of silence, and then a massive uproar.  Somehow, Tailor made himself heard above the crowd.  “What are you talking about, Z? Don’t tell me you’re going to use it on us, after everything we’ve –”

“Be quiet, Tailor,” Z interrupted, sounding bored.  “Even the most capable guard dogs have to be put down one day.  Now let the grown-ups talk already.”  He turned back to me.  “He wasn’t entirely wrong, though.  You are going to watch me use this virus, and you will see people die – unless you do what I want.”

“And what is that?” I asked, trying to smile reassuringly at X and Y.  It came out more like a grimace.

“You already know, right? It’s what you were thinking when you came here.  I know you were friends with a kid who left the House just before L started rising to fame, a kid whose name no one else knew.  And you left right after.  Most of the others were too involved in their petty squabbles to pay attention, but I noticed.  I know your friend is L, and I know you must be working with him, or else you would’ve made the call with Deneuve public and claimed victory as Coil.  So you’re going to – _look at me when I’m talking to you_!” With the first display of emotion I’d seen, he grabbed the sides of my head and forced me to make eye contact.  “Thank you.  You’re going to tell me where L is.”

I met his gaze without flinching.  “I can’t even begin to guess.  Have you checked the _patisserie_?”

“Very funny.  You won’t be laughing for long, though.”  He stepped back and walked over to the briefcase, then scooped up two needles and handed them off to Tailor.  “Here you go.  There’s actually not enough needles here for everyone – one person goes without.  Do what we talked about, and maybe that person will be you.”

I felt my eyes widen, my own stoicism crumbling.  “What are you doing?”

Tailor took the needles with a grin, then gestured to his followers.  Four large and burly men stepped forward and grabbed Xiao-Hong and Yanyu, one on each arm.  Realizing what was happening, they screamed and struggled, begging Z for mercy.

“Stop it!” I shouted, adding my voice to theirs.  “They have nothing to do with this!”

Z was unmoved.  “Tell me what I need to know, and I’ll call him off.  Their lives are in your hands.  So, where’s L?”

I furiously tried to wiggle out of my bonds, but to no avail.  “You don’t have to do this, Z, you don’t have to let the House control you –”

“Where’s L?”

“I don’t know!”

He smiled.  “Wrong answer.”  He nodded to Tailor, who plunged the needles into the girls’ arms.

For a moment, nothing happened.  Then their bodies began convulsing.  Angry red welts exploded on their skin, and blood began pouring out of their eyes and nostrils.  They opened their mouths to scream, and blood poured from there, too.  The guards shrank back in revulsion, and Xiao-Hong and Yanyu collapsed to the floor, writhing in agony.  Then the screams stopped as suddenly as if someone had hit a mute button, and they fell limp, pools of blood congealing about them.  It had taken only ten seconds.

I turned to stare at Z in horror, my heart pounding with rage.  “How could you?” I snarled, shaking in my chair.  “They helped you! All they wanted was to help people, and you killed them!”

Z shrugged, immovable in the face of my anger.  “I thought they were exaggerating, but you really even hate it when criminals die, huh? You’re a real saint – or you would be, if you weren’t the reason they were dead.”  My trembling intensified, and I was too enraged to speak.  Z got some more needles from the case and handed them off to Tailor. 

“ _Stop_!” I roared. 

He looked impatient now.  “I told you – not till you tell me what I need to know.  _Where’s L_?”

“ _Right in front of you_!”

Silence blanketed the warehouse.  Forty sets of eyes gazed at me in shock, none more so than Z’s.  His jaw had dropped, and his mouth was opening and closing soundlessly like a fish’s.  Even he, though, was not nearly as shocked as I was.  I hadn’t meant to say that.  I had no idea where that came from.  It was, after all, the one thing I knew I’d never be able to say, no matter how hard I worked to make it true.  But now it had to be true, for all these poor misguided people.  And for the real one.

At last, Z got his voice working again.  “W-What? You – you meant to tell me that _you’re_ L?”

Now that my mouth had blurted out a lie, my brain was working furiously to make it sound like the truth.  All was lost if he didn’t believe me.  “Look at me.  Law enforcement is a male-dominated sphere.  No one would take me seriously, no matter how good a detective I was.  It only makes sense that I’d hide my face when speaking publicly, right? And you said it yourself, I left at the same time that L started making a name for himself – or herself.”

He shook his head slowly, still refusing to understand.  “Y-Yesterday…Coil –”

“That was my intermediary,” I answered, grasping at straws.  “Watari.  Coil’s just a smokescreen, in case someone ever tried to find me.  Who better than a detective who specializes in finding missing people, right?”

“But –”

“But nothing!” I snapped.  “I told you the truth, so keep your promise.  Don’t hurt any of those people.”  My voice broke and became pleading.

“Right…right, I won’t.  I don’t have to, do I?” The look on Z’s face suddenly changed.  The last vestiges of his calm façade were gone, replaced with pure hatred.  It was like fire was streaming out of his eyes.  “All I have to do now…is destroy you!” He snatched a needle out of Tailor’s hand and advanced toward me, arm raised high.

I leaned back as far as the chair would let me.  “Wait a moment! I’m not going anywhere, so you’ll get your revenge in just a minute.  Won’t you let me have a last word first? Aren’t you curious what the great L’s dying words are?”

That stopped him.  He swayed on his feet, breathing like an animal at the end of the hunt.  Then he nodded jerkily.  “Do what you want.  Like you said, nothing will save your life.  What do you have to say?”

“Two things: a hunch and a fact.  Shall I do the hunch first?”  No one answered, so I just went on.  “You had Deneuve track my IP addresses after that broadcast, right? That’s how they knew how to hack my web camera to call me.  You couldn’t trace the one calling himself L, but he could trace me just like Deneuve could.  If he wanted to, he could have secretly hacked my camera and watched me carry out my investigation – every last detail.  Just like you did, no doubt.  Even though we had to be apart, he’d still know exactly what I was doing.  I can’t say for certain that’s what he did, though, so I’ll just have to assume.”

“And the fact?” Tailor asked, curious in spite of himself.

I smiled and tilted my head back, feeling the loose-fitting glasses slip up the bridge of my nose.  “I don’t wear glasses.”

Forty pairs of eyes looked to the wire spectacles adorning my face – or rather, the camera that looked like spectacles.  I’d put them on before leaving the apartment, hoping against all hope that L had hacked my web cam and seen me use them.  I had no doubt that Mr. Wammy could hack into the feed of his own invention.  There was no microphone, so he wouldn’t be able to hear anything Z or I said, but he could figure out from the picture where I was.

Z’s face blanched – he’d spied on me, too, so he knew what was really happening.  I smiled.  “Checkmate, Sixth-Place.”

Then the lights went out.  Something very loud and very close crashed, and through the filmy darkness, I could see smoke start to fill the enclosed space.  We all started coughing, but I forced myself to breathe in, suspecting that this was no ordinary smoke grenade.

I was right.  About all of it.  Over some outside projector, a familiar artificial voice rang out.  “That smoke contains the antidote, which I developed from the surviving 42% of the Rouen population.  Your one remaining weapon is useless, Z.  You might as well give up now.”

Through the smoke, I saw Z spin around, eyes starting about wildly in search of the voice.  “L –!”  He took a moment to spare a glare of hatred in my direction, then shouted in the direction of the door.  “Not until I kill you!”

There came another crash, followed by the sound of heavy footsteps.  L’s strike team had made it inside.  I could hear the soft thud of fists meeting flesh, the sound of many raised voices, and once or twice, the patter of gunfire.  I redoubled my efforts to escape my bonds, before I fell victim to friendly fire. 

Then I felt the wire fall away on its own, as though cut.  A familiar voice was at my ear.  “Run for it, _chérie_!  I’ll meet you at home!” Morrello pressed a gun into my hand, then ran off in the direction the smoke was flowing – toward the open door, no doubt.  I sprang out of the chair and followed him, weaving in and out of individual skirmishes.

Outside, the night air felt icy cold after the smoke and closeness of the warehouse.  I took in several gulps of it, then glanced around.  There was no one here, not Morrello, not L, not even the police.  The docks were completely deserted.  No better time than now to escape.  I started for the alley I’d arrived by.

Then I heard a noise behind me and spun on my heel, instinctively raising my gun (which, a part of my brain noticed did appear to be _my_ gun – Morrello had somehow found it on the floor where the guard had tossed it).  Z was stumbling out of the warehouse, hacking up lungfuls of smoke.  Our eyes locked, and I cocked the gun. 

But I couldn’t pull the trigger.  He didn’t look like a heartless criminal mastermind anymore – he looked like a little boy with a gun in his face, confronted with his own mortality for the first time.  He looked terrified.  What was he, thirteen, fourteen? I sighed, then gestured with the gun for him to move on.  He stared at me disbelievingly, then raced off into the night, unwilling to push his luck.  I watched him go, a sour taste in my mouth.

When you got right down to it, it wasn’t like I didn’t understand his mindset.

-

Morrello made it home just half a minute before I did.  He waited for me to triple-bolt the door behind me, then wrapped me in a bear hug.  “Thank God you’re safe!” he said.  Then he shoved me away, his handsome face twisted in anger.  “How dare you run out by yourself like that! Do you have any idea how worried I was?”

I gaped at him.  No, I hadn’t.  I didn’t realize he cared about me beyond being a tool for his schemes.  Evidently, I was at least a little mistaken.  “S-Sorry…Tailor saw your face, so if you came with me, I wouldn’t have been able to fool Z…”

“That’s not the point! Just…”  The anger left him like air from a balloon, and he sighed and slumped his shoulders.  He suddenly seemed much older, and much more tired.  “Just tell me next time, okay?”

I apologized again, and he gruffly accepted.  “But how did you know where I was?” I asked.  “Don’t tell me you figured out how to hack into the glasses’ feed yourself.”

He smiled.  “You think I can do something like that, when I can’t even figure out how to hack a regular security camera? If I could do that, there’d be no need for conning.  No, it was L who told me.”  He gestured toward my laptop, screen raised and dark on the kitchen counter.  “Remember how Deneuve said she’d hacked the computer, and that L traced the signal so that he could call us? Turns out he was watching us investigate yesterday, the little cheater, so he knew about the glasses.  He said he knew where you were because he’d hacked into the feed, and told me where I could find you.”

So my gamble had paid off after all.  I collapsed into a chair and closed my eyes, suddenly weak-kneed at the thought of what would have happened if it hadn’t.  I didn’t feel like I’d dodged a bullet so much as I’d dodged a machine gun.

Morrello glanced at the clock.  “Do you suppose Tailor and that little bastard have been caught?”

“The little bastard escaped,” I answered without opening my eyes.  “Tailor and the rest, who knows?”

“Huh…so if the general’s still out there, and we catch him, does that mean we win the competition?”

I cracked an eye open.  “Are you seriously still on that? Competition’s over.  L won.”

“Not yet, he hasn’t.  I’m not rolling over that easy if there’s still something I can do.”  He crossed the room and clapped me on the shoulder.  “On your feet, Camille! We’ve still got a little more than a day to find this guy, so let’s get to work!”

I groaned.  Had it really only been two days since this thing started? I felt like I’d aged a hundred years.  I needed to rest, to gather my thoughts, to process what had just happened.  I needed to mourn X and Y, and grieve for Z’s lost potential.  And most of all…

“I need a drink,” I muttered.  “Thierry, I’m pouring a glass of wine.  Want one?”

He looked confused – I’d never drunk on the job before – but smiled all the same.  “Have you ever known me to say no?”

I smiled back.  “Fair enough.  Romanee-Conti, right?”

“ _S’il te plait_.”

I hauled myself to my feet and traipsed into the kitchen.  I grabbed two glasses and Morrello’s favorite bottle of wine, then poured the one into the other.  Then, glancing over my shoulder to make sure I wasn’t being watched, I reached into the very back of the spice cupboard and grabbed a little white vial labeled “cumin.”  It had been there, untouched, for six years – Morrello was allergic to cumin, and so the false label drove him off.  I poured a small amount of white powder from the vial into one glass, then stirred the mixture until the last grain dissolved.  Satisfied, I replaced the vial and carried the glasses over to Morrello, who had taken my seat. 

“Here you go,” I said, holding the spiked glass out to him.

He took it without suspicion and raised it in a toast.  “ _À ta santé_.”  He took a sip.  He smiled, marveling at the taste of his preferred brand.  Then his face went slack, his eyes rolled up into his head, and he went limp, the glass spilling from his hand onto the floor.  It was a mild sedative – he’d be out for about eight hours, by which time I’d already be on a plane.

I’d been prepared for this moment for six years, ever since I shut the House’s gate behind me.  There had been no sound on the glasses feed and no microphone on my person, and whenever Z had alluded to my past, I turned my head away, so that anyone watching couldn’t see Z’s mouth move and so read his lips.  There was no guarantee that I’d been found out.  But I wasn’t willing to risk that chance.  L knew where I lived and with whom I associated.  He knew that Camille Morrello and Eraldo Coil were one and the same.  And if X, Y, and Z could figure out that Camille Morrello was the same as Wammy’s C, then how long would it take L? I wasn’t sticking around long enough to find out. 

I grabbed my go-bag, leaving everything else untouched and making sure to retrieve the flash drive from its sock.  I wrote a quick note to Morrello, apologizing for drugging him, telling him not to worry or look for me, and thanking him for all he’d done.  Then I hefted my bag on one shoulder and headed for the door.

As I passed the kitchen, I stopped, eyeing the laptop.  I couldn’t take it with me now that it had been compromised.  All personally identifiable information and everything related to my cases had been backed up on an impenetrable virtual server, so the machine itself could be disposed of without fear.  Right now, though…almost without conscious thought, I tossed my bag to the side and went over to the counter.  Then I took a seat, woke the computer out of sleep mode, and stared at the web cam.  The light was off, making it look inactive.

“L,” I said in a low voice.  “You’re still there, right?”

The light remained off, but the screen erupted into white, and a moment later, the familiar letter floated on my screen once more.  My own shield was down, but there was no point in hiding my face any longer; no doubt L had already seen it, either during my work yesterday or at the warehouse just now.

“Greetings, Eraldo Coil,” the artificial voice said, sounding as calm and cool as ever.  “I’m glad you returned safely.”

“Never mind that.  How much of my stuff did you see?”

“Everything that occurred during the first day of the competition.  My own deductions kept me occupied today.”

So not the call with Deneuve, then.  He hadn’t heard them call me C – or so he said.  “Well, whatever.  You’re still connected, which means you have something you need to say to me, too, right?”

“Four things, in fact.  But I’ll let you say your piece first, if you’re not finished.”

I snorted.  “All right, then.  I just wanted to say, thanks for coming to get me.  I’m pretty sure you just saved my life.”

“Indeed, but saving your life may not have been my goal.  Zebedee Hartwell, Lind L. Tailor, and the others were in the same location, and it was my duty as a detective to apprehend them.”

“Was it your duty to call my brother and tell him where to find me?”

There was a pause.  When it didn’t look like it would end any time soon, I laughed.  “Well, whatever.  What did you have to say to me?”

When he spoke again, his voice sounded completely normal – for him, anyway.  “First, I’ve been told that I owe you an apology.”

“For hacking my computer, right?”

“Yes, but I won’t apologize for that.  It was necessary in order for me to get the full facts of the case, and as you just said, it ended up saving your life.  Your brother may consider it cheating –” So he had been listening after all.  “– but I discovered enough on my own to justify it, and at any rate, all methods are viable in the pursuit of justice.”

“Maybe not _all_ methods, but I basically agree with you.  So what are you apologizing for, if not that?”

“I had something of an erroneous picture of you in my mind.  It never occurred to me that you were a young woman.  I’m quite impressed.”

I stared at the screen a moment, then burst out in laughter.  “Holy crap, the great L fooled by little ole me? I can retire happy now – hell, I could probably _die_ happy!”

“I must advise against terminating your life.  Your sentiment, however, leads into my second line of thought: you might be interested to know that Lind L. Tailor and Zebedee Hartwell have been captured, and the remains of the virus destroyed.  The arrest took place in absolute secrecy, and the details of the last few days will never come to light, so that the virus cannot be recreated and misused.”

Good.  That’s a weight off my mind.  “So, what you’re saying is, you’ve won the competition, right?”

“It would appear so.”  He sounded a little smug. 

I sighed and shook my head, still smiling.  “Well, congratulations, L – or Coil, or Deneuve, whatever you’re calling yourself now.  I’d give you my contacts and resources, but you already saw them when you hacked my computer right? I’ll leave it here for you anyway – I don’t need it anymore, especially if you’re peeping on me.”

“I wasn’t peeping.”

“It’s a joke, man, calm down.”  It suddenly struck me that I was speaking easier and more freely to this faceless voice than I had since…well, since L had left.  It was unnatural how natural it felt.  I cough loudly and said, “You said four things, right? What are the other two?”

“They are both questions.  First, how did you know that I not only knew about the glasses, but also could intercept their feed? It didn’t appear that you realized I had hacked your computer.”

I winced.  “You’re right, I didn’t know.  The possibility occurred to me, though.  I’ve been following your cases, L, and I know how you’d act.  If the opportunity presents itself, you take it, especially if it gets the job done.  So I gambled, and it paid off.  Thanks again, by the way.”

“But you still had no idea that I had done as you predicted.”

“I had faith in you, though.”

Another long pause.  “I…see,” he said at last, his voice sounding a little smaller than it had.  “No one has ever said that to me before…thank you.”

I smiled.  “No problem.  What’s the last thing?”

He was all business again in an instant.  “After your conversation with Deneuve, you possessed all the information necessary to solve the case.  And the objective was simply that, solving the case; we were not required to capture the culprit ourselves to succeed.  Had you made the information on Zebedee Hartwell public, you would have unquestionably won the competition.  Why, then, did you keep silent?”

“Easy.  I wanted you to win.”

“…I don’t understand.”

“Do you know why I’m a detective, L?”

“Because you are intelligent and possess a strong sense of justice.”

I shook my head.  “No, that’s why I’m good at being a detective.  I’m a detective in the first place because I enjoy it.  It’s something I _want_ to do, not something I _have_ to do.  But you’re the opposite, right? If you lost, you’d be too proud to go back on your promise, and we wouldn’t have you solving cases anymore.  I’m not going to be the one responsible for that.”

“I see.  Eraldo Coil, I must apologize again.  It seems I was mistaken about you.”

“I’m not Eraldo Coil anymore.  And that’s good, ‘cause I’m not suited for paid justice.”

“Indeed.  You possess not only a great intelligent, but a great kindness as well.  In truth, you remind me of someone I used to know quite well.”

I froze, my eyes wide.  If that seemed weird to him, though, he didn’t comment.

“I wish you the best, Mademoiselle Morrello.  I hope we may meet again.”  Pause.  “So that we might walk side by side.”  Before I could answer, he disconnected, the screen returning to normal again.

I cut the power, slammed the screen shut, and ran without looking back.

-

END OF NOTE 2


	11. 3.1: Spotlight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death Note (c) 2003 Ohba Tsugumi and Obata Takeshi. Another Note: The Los Angeles BB Murder Cases (c) 2006 Nisio Isin. All rights reserved.

**Note 3: You Know My Methods**

**-**

**Chapter 1: Spotlight**

There was one new email waiting for me when I got to the front desk of the FBI’s Los Angeles office Wednesday morning.  It was from my supervisor, Lori.  That wasn’t odd in and of itself – all my emails were forwarded from Lori, usually instructions for tasks she was too lazy to complete herself.  What _was_ odd was that she hadn’t mentioned the email when I had checked in with her five minutes before.  In fact, there was no point sending an email at all, since I had to report to her as soon as I arrived anyway.  My first thought was that she had forgotten something, but the timestamp on the email was fifteen minutes before I arrived, which made the fact that she hadn’t said anything even stranger.

The office had only just opened – only the most dutiful of agents and employees were trickling in to get a jump on the day’s work, and the phones would be mercifully silent for a little while longer.  With no other pressing business to attend to, I opened the email. 

It was addressed to Eraldo Coil.

I stared at the heading with wide eyes, conscious of a loud roaring in my ears and a painful slamming against my ribcage.  _Eraldo Coil_ …I hadn’t used that name in two years, not since I had lost the right to it in the Detective War.  Up until then, I had been careful – no one knew the identity of the world’s second-greatest anonymous detective, with the sole exception of my foster brother, the beneficiary of Coil’s exorbitant fees.  After the War, he had agreed to abandon our little scheme, albeit with much grumbling and cursing of my “damned detective’s pride.”  He wouldn’t be call me at that now; at the very least, he wouldn’t have addressed an email to me that way.  Which meant that the only person who might have known, the only person capable of deducing the original Coil’s true identity… the edges of my vision started to blur, and I gripped the edge of my desk, afraid I would faint. 

_Calm down.  Even if he’s found out you’re Coil, there’s no way he could’ve found out you’re C.  You were careful.  You took care of everything.  You’re safe._

I took several deep breaths, waiting for my pulse to slow to something like normal.  Then I looked around and, after making sure that none of the people walking past my desk were paying attention, I went on reading.

_To the former Ms. Eraldo Coil,_

_Please forgive me for borrowing your supervisor’s email address.  I imagine you would have deleted any messages from an unfamiliar source immediately, as is protocol in your office. Please find attached a copy of a crossword puzzle delivered to the Los Angeles Police Department on July 22 nd.   I would ask that you reply to this message with the completed puzzle, as well as the amount of time it took for you to finish.  There is no deep meaning behind the latter, merely a desire to compare results and see if I am still one step ahead of you.  I have arranged it so that all messages sent from your address to your supervisor over the next three hours will be sent directly to me, so please do not be concerned about unwanted eyes.  In addition, please destroy this computer within twenty-four hours of reading this message._

_L_

I read the message over three times, then leaned back in my chair and stared up at the ceiling, processing.  My first thought was that the whole thing was an elaborate prank, but even if Lori was smart or bored enough to come up with something like that, she would know better than to go through with it. No one even remotely connected to any sort of law enforcement agency, let alone the FBI, would dare to use L’s name in jest.  The consequences were too drastic to even imagine.  My foster brother, too, could be ruled out; his sense of humor was twisted, but not that twisted. Conclusion: the message was genuine.

That, though, opened up a whole new set of problems.  Despite running away to America and adopting a new identity, despite all my careful planning, L knew that I had once been Eraldo Coil.  Of course, he was smarter and more capable than I was, so a part of me had always known that I couldn’t fool him completely. Still, if he knew that much, then he knew who my brother was, and most likely that he was a con man.  If he wanted, he could blackmail me by threatening to arrest him.  More importantly, if he knew who Thierry Morrello was, then he might have discovered that there were no records of the only Morrello daughter before 1994, the year that I had left the House.  If he realized that…

I forced those thoughts to the back on my mind, my eyes focused on the little paperclip icon on the screen.  _A crossword puzzle, huh?_ Why send me a crossword puzzle? No, more than that – who would send a crossword puzzle to the police, and why would L bother with it? Was it connected to some case? Nothing had been reported, though, and none of the higher-ups at the agency had mentioned working with L on a Los Angeles case.  They wouldn’t have told the receptionist directly, of course, but the FBI data security was laughably lax.  I could hack into it from my work computer.  There had been no mention of L for months, not even by the Director.  So just what was that puzzle about…?

My eyes flicked upward to the message again.   _I am still one step ahead of you._   That casual boast, more than anything, quashed my fear.  For the first time since the War, I felt my blood boiling again with the thirst for competition.  Damned detective’s pride indeed.

“Okay, L,” I murmured to the computer.  “You wanna go? Let’s go.”  I opened the attachment, deleted the original email (safety first), and got started on the crossword.  If nothing else, it would be the first bit of mental stimulation I would get in this soul-sucking job.

It was one of those find-the-message puzzles: certain boxes were numbered, and by filling in the letters inside to the corresponding blank, one could read a secret message.  The puzzle was also – and this was saying something, coming from a former resident of Wammy’s House – extremely difficult.  Not only were the clues very vague, but they also were about the most obscure and random bits of useless trivia ever imagined.  Even with all my mental prowess, it took over an hour (not counting interruptions from the phones and people coming up to my desk) to complete.  And that was for a Wammy kid – I can’t imagine how long it would have taken a person of average intelligence.  They probably would have given up after only one or two questions.

At last, I filled out the secret message (221 Insist Street, Hollywood), uploaded the completed puzzle, and penned a reply:

_To the current Mr. (?) Eraldo Coil,_

_Not counting distractions related to my work, I finished the puzzle in one hour and eight minutes.  I assume this was more time than you needed._

_Warm regards,_

_Your Predecessor_

I hit the send button and waited.  Then hit the refresh button and waited.  And waited.  And waited…

“Casey? Hey, Casey!”

I jumped in surprise and looked up to see a handsome Asian man frowning at me in concern.  “Oh, hi, Raye.  Didn’t see you there.”

“Clearly.”  The crease between his eyes deepened as he stared at me.  “Is everything all right? You were glaring at that computer like it ran over your cat.  And you’re looking kind of pale…”

“I’m fine.  Just pulling an all-nighter for an essay due this afternoon.  Still not done with it.”

“Oh, yeah? That’s unusual for you.  Don’t work too hard.”

“Tell that to my professor.”  He laughed. Taking advantage of the distraction, I added, “So, how’s Naomi doing?”

His expression darkened.  Raye’s girlfriend, another agent, had been on administrative leave for the past three weeks following a botched cartel bust.  Only three out of seventeen cartel members had been arrested, while three agents were critically wounded and another four had died.  It was no one’s fault in particular, but the Bureau chose Naomi as it’s scapegoat because she had hesitated to fire on a thirteen-year-old cartel lieutenant.  At least, that was the official story; in reality, it was because Naomi was foreign, female, and (until now) the ideal agent.  Naturally, that made for a poor combination in an industry dominated by white men.

“About as well as can be expected,” Raye said.  “I keep telling her it’s not her fault, but...”. He sighed.  “I would’ve thought the engagement would make her feel better, but the whole business is weighing pretty heavily on her – “

“Whoa, whoa, back up,” I interrupted.  “Engagement? What engagement?”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot.” His cheeks flushed, and he rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously.  “I, uh, proposed over the weekend.  She said yes.”  He beamed with pride and pleasure.

“Congrat – wait.  You proposed while she was on administrative leave?”

He frowned.  “Uh, yeah.”

“While she’s beating herself up about the bust?”

“Yeah?”

“And she still said yes?”

“What do you mean, still?”

It was my turn to sigh.  “Christ, Raye, you don’t get how women work at all, do you? It’s a wonder she’s kept you this long, much less agreed to get married.”

He bristled.  “W-What’s the problem? I was trying to cheer her up!”

I rolled my eyes.  “Honestly, Raye, one of these days, you’re gonna have to introduce me to her, just so I can tell her she can do so much – oh, hang on.”

The phone had started ringing, an inside line from the office of Agent Mason, the branch head.  _What’s he doing calling reception?_ Frowning, I picked up the phone.  “Front desk.”

“I need to speak to Casey Watson,” Mason said without preamble.  His voice was tight and stressed.

I blinked.  “Speaking.”

“Come up to my office.  Ninth floor.  Five minutes.” He hung up before I could respond.  I stared at the phone for a moment, then put it back in its cradle and put my computer into sleep mode.

“Something wrong?” Raye asked, looking concerned.

I tried and failed not to think of the crossword.  “I hope not.”

-

Steve Mason was seated behind his desk with the lights off and the shutters drawn.  He was a hefty, bald, mustachioed man in his forties, and he was on the fast track to the Director’s chair in D.C.  He usually conveyed the aura of the unflappable, hardass commander, but today he looked on edge, his fingers clasped tightly together and his bald head shining with sweat.

“Watson, right?” he said as I started to knock.  I nodded and showed him my badge when he asked for it.  He gestured to the guest chair.  “Have a seat.  Lock the door behind you.”

I obeyed, trying to sit up as straight as I could.  After Mason was silent for a few minutes, I prompted, “Excuse me, sir, but what’s this all about.”

He was quiet a moment longer, then sighed deeply.  “To be perfectly honest, I don’t know myself.  This...person here wants to speak to you.” He hesitated, then added, “He said a live feed needs a more secure connection than an email.”

It was then I realized that the closed laptop on his desk, as well as the microphone and two external speakers, were not facing him.  They were facing me.

The room started to spin again.  “Sir, no,” I heard myself whimper from somewhere far away.

Mason gave me a look of pure sympathy, and then unfolded the laptop.  “Sorry for the wait, L,” he said, raising his voice so that the microphone could pick it up.  “This is her.”

Sure enough, the image on the screen was a black calligraphic _L_ floating against a white background.  I gaped at it, my stomach turning somersaults.  _That’s it, then.  Back to that hellhole for me._

“Greetings, Casey Watson,” a tinny synthetic voice said out of the speakers.  “I am L.”

My mouth fell open slightly, but no sound came out.  I shook myself and cleared my throat in an attempt to get it together.  “Hi,” I blurted out before I could stop myself.  Above the laptop, Mason scowled at the breach of decorum.

L, however, didn’t seem to require any further pleasantries.  “You were correct earlier.”

I blinked.  “Correct? About what?”

“I solved the crossword in forty-nine fewer minutes.”

 _Of course you did._ Was that a trick of the synthetic voice, or was that a hint of smugness in his words? I felt my fists clench and unclench in my lap.  “As expected of the world’s most skilled detective,” I said, forcing myself to sound calm.  “Did you call to tell me that?”

L either ignored or didn’t register the rudeness.  “Among other things.  As I explained in my earlier message, that puzzle was sent to the LAPD on July 22nd.  You will, perhaps, be unsurprised to hear that not one of the officers deciphered the message.”

“221 Insist Street, Hollywood.”

“Yes.  Does that address mean anything to you?”

I wracked my brain.  “...No.  Should it?”

“The house with that address was the scene of a murder on August 9th.  The victim was the owner, Believe Bridesmaid.”

My head shot up.  That I had heard of.  All of Los Angeles had, if not the entire state of California.  “The _wara ningyo_ guy? You’re hunting _him_?”

Too late, I realized my mistake; I had said the phrase correctly, as a Japanese person should.  The American I was pretending to be would have mispronounced it, or else cut her losses and just called them “straw dolls.” Of course, the fact that I could say a Japanese word did not immediately point to the little Japanese girl from the House, but I couldn’t afford to give L even a single clue.

If he caught my slip, though, he didn’t indicate it.  “Good, you’re following the case.  I’m not surprised, of course.  You were acquainted with the second victim, yes?”

“The Queens are my neighbors, yes.  Were my neighbors.” I felt a hollow stab of pain at the memory of that bright, cheery little girl.  _There had to be something I could’ve done..._

“As I thought.” Pause.  “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.” Another pause.

“The killer struck again last night,” L went on sans transition.  “The victim was Backyard Bottomslash, a bank clerk living in the Western part of Los Angeles.  Like the previous two victims, she was drugged, and the room in which the body was found was locked from the inside, with two _wara ningyo_ nailed to the walls.  However, this time, the killer sawed off her left arm and right leg.  Police found the leg in the victim’s bathtub, but the arm is still unaccounted for.  Cause of death, as you would guess, is massive hemorrhaging.”

“Jesus Christ,” I couldn’t help but say.  Mason’s skin had taken on a greenish tinge. 

“Indeed,” L replied.  “To prevent further senseless bloodshed, I have begun investigating this case myself.”

 _Why?_ I wanted to ask.  Sure, this case was unusual, and the police were completely baffled, but those weren’t prerequisites for L’s involvement.  Throughout his career, the only cases L had ever taken involved at least ten victims or a million dollars, or else were of personal interest to him.  Here, though the crimes were gruesome, there were still too few victims to justify involvement, and there was no money involved at all.  Which meant it had to be the third option...but what about this case would interest someone like L?

Before I could ask, though, L added, “I would like your help in doing so.”

This time, I was unable to keep my head.  “I – you – _what_?” I spluttered.

Unruffled, L repeated himself. “Specifically, you would analyze each of the crime scenes in person and report your findings to me.  I cannot, of course, visit the crime scenes myself, so your eyes and hands would be invaluable to me.  Any theories on the case you develop would be most welcome as well.”

My mouth fell open again.  Help him? _Him_? There were about fifteen different things wrong with that statement, first and foremost that even if L, world’s greatest detective, needed help on a case, he couldn’t possibly gain anything from someone like me.  He must have some other agenda – like finding out my real identity.  Which he would do, beyond doubt.  To prevent that, I had to avoid associating with him at all costs.

Naturally, my protests did not mention that in so many words.  “L, I’m flattered by your offer, but I think there’s been some sort of misunderstanding.  I’m not an agent; I’m a receptionist.  Wouldn’t you rather have someone more qualified to work in the field?”

“Not particularly.” The response was immediate, matter-of-fact.  “In truth, I have already commissioned a very talented field investigator to assist you.  However, while she has above-average intelligence, she is nowhere near your level.  In addition, the more pairs of eyes at my disposal, the more points of view – and therefore a fuller understanding of the crimes – I shall have.  Rather than a hindrance, your presence can only assist my investigation.  Working together, there is a thirty-percent higher likelihood that the killer shall be brought to justice.”

 _Just thirty percent, huh? Way to sweet-talk a girl_.  I was cur1ious about who this field agent might be, but I set my questions aside for a moment.  There were more important answers to find out.  “Why me, though? Because I’m smart?”

“Not only that.  Because of who you truly are.” My heart skipped a beat.  “That is, Eraldo Coil.”

 _Oh.  Of course._ I let out a bitter chuckle.  “I’m not though, am I? Not anymore.  You saw to that.”

“I took your name, but not your mind.  You are extremely talented at deduction and could be a valuable asset.  Also, unlike a number of other candidates for the position, you have a strong sense of justice and high esteem for human life.  I admire those qualities very deeply.”

Startled by this blatant declaration, it took me a moment to find the words to reply.  “You must have me confused with someone else, L.  Eraldo Coil only accepted cases that paid well, remember?”

“Your handler only accepted cases that paid well,” L clarified.  “You went along with this out of a desire to please him, but in truth, you accepted a great number of cases pro bono, without using the Coil name.” He paused.  “If memory serves, you continue to do that even now, as Casey Watson.”

 _“If memory serves,” huh? Like he has no_ idea.  I cursed my stupidity.  I knew right at the outset that taking cases, even anonymously would make me conspicuous, but I couldn’t help myself.  No one else would’ve helped those people, and without those cases, my existence would have been entirely purposeless. 

_What makes this case any different from that?_

“My time is running short,” L was saying.  “Will you help me, Casey Watson?”

Risk or no risk, L or no L, people were dying.  Little Quarter Queen, as well as the other two, deserved justice.  The police couldn’t give it to them; only a Wammy kid could figure it out.  If there was something I could do, then I had to do it.  There was no other choice.

“All right, L.  I’m in.”

 


	12. 3.2: Valley of Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death Note (c) 2003 Ohba Tsugumi and Obata Takeshi. Another Note: The Los Angeles BB Murder Cases (c) 2006 Nisio Isin. All rights reserved.

**Chapter 2: Valley of Fear**

Two weeks after the first murder, the home of the late Believe Bridesmaid still had police tape on the door.  It was a very large Queen Anne-style house, practically a mansion.  Too much for a single man, too much for a freelance writer, just too much in general.  The were no officers on guard duty – they probably thought they had gotten all they could from this first scene, and should focus on the newer ones.  All the same, there were no trespassers or rubberneckers to speak of.  The few people out this early would keep their eyes fixed firmly ahead.  One or two glanced cautiously at the house, but then looked at the ground and hurried on their way.  The site of a murder was obscene, like a nude statue in a public park.  Normal people would be driven away by such a thing.  Normal people would go nowhere near it.

 _So much for being normal_ , I thought, sitting with a coffee cup on a bench across the street and trying to appear casual.  L’s other agent and I were supposed to rendezvous here before starting our investigation.  That would be it; we would have no backup.  Despite the fact that the FBI had jurisdiction in serial killer cases, L had requested that Mason open no official investigation on the grounds that it would “interfere with his own work.” Mason agreed, publicly explaining his inaction with a lack of definitive proof that the same killer, and not a copycat, committed all three crimes (as if it wasn’t obvious that he had).  Of course, for the integrity of the ruse and the secrecy of our involvement, we wouldn’t have access to FBI resources either.  Our only lifeline was a shut-in detective on the other end of a phone line.

To put it mildly, I was uneasy about the whole thing.  It was true that I had visited crime scenes before in secret, while working on my own cases.  This, however, would be my first case where I’d be one hundred percent in the field.  There would be no computer to hide behind, no synthesizer to scramble my voice, no Morrello to hide behind.  I was totally exposed.  Fear gnawed at my belly at just the thought of it.  Not of the killer, but of L.  Of being discovered.

“And how much worse would it be if you’d said no?” I muttered to myself, ducking my head so that my mouth would be hidden.  If I was truly capable of catching the killer, and had refused, then _maybe_ I could’ve deflected L’s suspicion, but I also would be disgusted with my cowardice and shoulder the blame for any more deaths.  That was just who I was.  At the very least, I wouldn’t be able to look poor Quarter’s mom in the eye again.

“Just do your damn job,” I ordered myself.  “Catch the bad guy.  Nothing else matters till that’s done.”

Somewhat chastised, I raised my head, then jumped in surprise.  There was someone in front of Believe Bridesmaid’s house, looking at the police tape on the door and fidgeting uncomfortably, as if she was unsure what she ought to be doing.  She was Japanese, mid-twenties, about five and a half feet tall, with long black hair and a leather jacket.  I recognized her instantly: Naomi Misora, Raye’s disgraced fiancée.  _No way…_ that’s _who L picked?_ Sure, she was a very talented field agent, which was what he wanted, but to deliberately choose someone in hot water with the FBI…

Whatever the case may be, there was no point standing around, staring.  I crossed the street and approached her, anxious knots clenching in my stomach.  “Excuse me, Agent Misora? You’re here about the – uh, that job, right?”

She regarded me carefully for a moment, but then started, blinking rapidly.  “I know you! You’re the receptionist – Raye’s friend!”

I nodded, smiling sheepishly.  “Yeah, that’s right.  I’m Casey Watson.  Nice to finally meet you – I’ve heard a lot from Raye.”  I held out my hand, feeling awkward.

She ignored it, which was understandable given the look of blank shock plastered on her face.  “Why would he pick you?” she said, more to herself than me.  “Why would he pick someone so young, with no experience?”

I had several working theories, not least of which being the reason L gave me himself, but none of them were worth repeating to a civilian – that is, someone outside the House.  And there was no need to tell her about Coil; since that was now one of L’s identities, revealing a connection to Coil would put him in danger.  Despite everything that had happened, that was the last thing I wanted.  So I only shrugged and said, “Beats me.  But hey, he’s the genius, right?”

Instead of responding, Naomi pulled out her cell phone, dialed a number (checking it against a scrap of paper from her jacket pocket), and put the phone to her ear.  “L, I’ve reached the scene.  Listen, about this consultant of yours.  She’s the _receptionist_.  No field experience, no training – she’s hardly older than eighteen.”

“I’m twenty,” I piped up. 

Naomi continued to ignore me.  “With all due respect, is she really the best option?”

She fell silent, listening to L’s reply.  I waited, rocking back and forth on my heels.  After a few minutes, Naomi’s eyes widened, and her mouth fell open slightly.  “What? I – I’m sorry, did you say _Eraldo Coil_?”

I jerked back upright, nearly falling over in the process.  “ _What_?!” I snatched the phone out of Naomi’s hand, earning a dirty look in the process.  “Do you have _zero_ regard for your own safety?” I snapped. 

“What do you mean, Casey Watson?” L’s synthesizer asked, sounding almost innocent.

“You know perfectly well what I –” I stopped, mind racing.  The only person who knew L was Eraldo Coil was me.  The only people who knew I had once been Eraldo Coil were me, my foster brother, L, and now Naomi.  No one at all knew that L and I had once been friends living in the same orphanage, and the only way they would figure that out is if I told them.  Conclusion: if I dropped it now, no one would ever make the connection, and L would be safe.

“You know what? Never mind.”  I handed the phone back to its owner.  “Sorry, Agent Misora.”  _Damned L, fucking around with my head…what the hell is he even playing at? Careless bastard…_

Naomi gave me a look that was half-annoyed, half-questioning, but returned her attention to the conversation when I wasn’t forthcoming.  “All right, then.  I’ll trust your judgment, L…outside.  We’re headed toward the scene of the crime but have not yet entered the yard…thanks.”  She made a face – probably reacting to one of L’s bizarre comments – and gestured to me, then the door.  I nodded, crossed the yard, and tugged the police tape off the door, letting it flutter to the ground.  The door was already unlocked, so I stepped into the murder house without a second’s hesitation, Naomi close on my heels.

The inside of the house was spacious and empty, with a large spiral staircase right in the foyer like one of those fancy old mansions.  Naomi strode right past it, heading in the direction of the half-open door off to the left.  I jogged after her and found myself in what appeared to be the victim’s bedroom – the scene of the murder, according to official reports.  The cleaners had done a good job – there were no stains on the carpet, and the air smelled fresh and clean, with no trace of blood.  It looked, for all the world, like a perfectly ordinary room, like any room in the country, where nothing bad ever happens.  I didn’t know what surprised me more: the fact that such a horrific incident could leave no trace on the room, or the fact that I was not at all bothered by the fact that I was standing in a room where a man had been brutally killed.  The latter, of course, I could chalk up to jaded experience.  This may have been my first hands-on investigation, but it wasn’t my first crime scene, and it certainly wasn’t my first murder.

While Naomi continued talking with L, I started looking around the crime scene.  It was a large room, with a window positioned in such a way that full daylight would illuminate the room from noon till sunset.  Good conditions for both reading and writing, core tenets of Believe Bridesmaid’s profession as a freelance writer.  However, it didn’t look like he had used this room for work.  The only furnishings were a queen-sized bed and four bookshelves.  No writing desk or chairs, which meant that Mr. Bridesmaid would have read those books while reclining on his bed.  The books on the shelves, too, were designed for pleasure reading, all leisure guides and Japanese comics.  He’d used this room strictly for playtime, then.  Our victim appeared to be the sort of man who clearly separated the different facets of his life, keeping everything in its proper place.  I could understand that desire for order, and envied its execution.  There wasn’t so much as a speck of dust in the room – though to be fair, that wasn’t so much Believe Bridesmaid’s fastidiousness as the fact that the killer had wiped down literally everything in the house, including the lightbulbs.  The books were all alphabetized by subject, and with the exception of a single _manga_ series (missing volumes four and nine), all the sets were complete.  The shelves held exactly the number of books they were designed to.  Order, logic, reason.  Believe Bridesmaid would have fit right in at the House.  The only things that did not belong were the four tiny holes, one on each wall and all exactly level at waist height, where the _wara ningyo_ had been nailed.

After another little while on the phone (during which the majority of the audible half of the conversation was just recapping the police reports and asking questions about why the two of us were here), Naomi hung up and stuffed the phone back in her pocket.  “Anything I ought to know?” I asked, trying to take a book about parasailing off the shelf.  It was wedged in tightly and took quite a bit of shimmying to remove.

Naomi gave me a look of…not dislike, exactly, nor distrust.  More like uncertainty.  A _just what sort of person is this?_ sort of look.  “L thinks the killer might have left behind a message, one that leads to the next murder,” she said after a moment.  “Or rather, that he took something from the room, and that’s the message.  Something that should be here, but isn’t...”

“I see...well, there’s an obvious answer for that, isn’t there?” I gestured to the empty space in the center of the room, between the bed and the shelves.  “Believe Bridesmaid should be here, but he’s dead.” _WAY too obvious, though.  Surely the guy smart enough to write that crossword would’ve done something else..._

Naomi nodded.  “I was thinking the same thing.  Here, have a look at this.” She rummaged around in her purse and pulled out a manila folder.  “L sent that to me this morning.”

I took the proffered folder and opened it.  It looked like the police report for the first murder.  “He never sent me this.” Of course, I’d hacked into the LAPD database last night and seen a lot of this myself, but it was the thought that counted.

“Hmm, that’s funny.” It was a simple statement to politely fill the silence, with no discernable gloating.

While Naomi made her own sweep of the room, I examined the contents of the folder.  First was a blank copy of the crossword I’d solved.  Next was the official report on the investigation, which covered everything I’d already learned from L and my own research – the wara ningyo, the (lack of) fingerprints, time and cause of death (early evening on July 31, strangulation), and a general sense that the police had no leads whatsoever.  The last item was new: photographs of the body.  For a strangulation, there was quite a lot of blood; the killer, apparently, had mutilated the body after death.  There were two pictures, one showing the markings carved into the victim’s chest and one of the victim wearing a bloodied T-shirt, hiding the markings.  Which meant that after slicing up the chest, the killer had put the shirt back on the victim.

That was an odd thing to do...it couldn’t have been easy to dress a limp body.  Why not just cut through the shirt? To draw attention to the markings.  I stared at the photo of Believe Bridesmaid’s chest.  The knife cuts were crude and disorganized, but if I held the photograph a certain way, they almost looked like letters.  L, I, C, M, V...it didn’t read out as anything intelligible.  Was this really the message we were looking for? But it was still too obvious...

 _No, focus.  Don’t climb trees, walk through the forest._  The killer sent the crossword puzzle to the LAPD nine days before the first murder.  Solving it would give the address of the crime scene.  L believed that there was another message from the killer here, which would presumably lead to the second crime scene.  Following the pattern, the second and third scenes would contain messages as well.

The killer was not trying to cover his tracks.  He wanted to be found.  No – he wanted to give us all the answers, then laugh in our faces when we couldn’t figure them out.  He was playing a game, arrogantly mowing down lives for the sake of his own amusement.

_And to make sure he knows that’s happening, that we find the messages...he needs to be watching._

My eyes darted around the room.  No wires.  No cameras.  The shelves were too full for them, and there was nowhere else in this half-empty room to put them.  Nowhere except...

“Misora.  Did you check under the bed?”

She didn’t look away from the shelf she was scrutinizing.  “No.  That would’ve been the first place the police looked, right? I doubt we’d find anything they didn’t.”

 _There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact._  Moving slowly, I walked over to the bed, knelt down beside it, and peeked under.

A pair of bulging eyes peered back at me.

“SHIT!” I scrambled to my feet and reached for my gun, before I remembered that I wasn’t carrying it because normal girls did not carry guns.  “Get out!” I snarled, trying to sound as big and intimidating as possible.  “Get the fuck out from under there, and no fucking around!” Behind me, Naomi was yelling the same sorts of things, her hand inside her jacket to make it look like she had a weapon.

With no rush or sense of urgency, the man crawled out from underneath the bed and drew himself up to his full height – or rather, about three quarters of his height, his back curved in a hunch and his hands in the pockets of faded blue jeans.

Messy black hair.  Sickly pale skin.  Dark rings under wide eyes.  A long-sleeved white shirt and faded jeans.  No shoes on his feet.  It was as though merely thinking of him had summoned him from the depths of my memories to the reality before my eyes.

“Y-you...”

He met my stare evenly.  “Nice to meet you.” His back dipped further in some semblance of a Japanese-style bow.  “Please call me Ryuzaki.”

-

“So let me get this straight,” I said at last.  “You’re a private detective.”

“I prefer ‘un-private detective,’” the man called Ryuzaki corrected, speaking around the thumbnail he was nibbling.  “Without ego and without secrets.”

“Everyone has secrets,” Naomi protested.

“I do not.”

“Of course you do.  You’re a detective.”

“Oh? In that case, I do.”

 _Flexible of you._  I could practically hear Naomi’s teeth grinding in response.  I was right there with her.

The three of us were in the late Believe Bridesmaid’s sitting room, Naomi and I perched on two wooden chairs from the kitchen, Ryuzaki on the sofa, sitting in a crouching position with his knees pressed against his chest.  Bastard even sat like L.  Seeing it made my blood boil.  All of it did, actually. 

For the man sitting before us looked and sounded like L, sure, but he wasn’t L.  That fact was completely obvious to someone who had known the guy as long as I had.  Here and there, there were discrepancies: the sagging skin and unhealthy air of one who had lost a lot of weight recently (hidden well, but not completely, beneath baggy clothes), the lower and less prominent cheekbones, the way he kept swiveling his head like there were no bones in his neck, instead of just an occasional cock of the head.  With all that in mind, the pale skin and dark bags under the eyes took on a quality of artificiality, like very convincing stage makeup.  And even without all that, even if this guy and L were clones, I would’ve known it couldn’t be him.  L wouldn’t show his face under any circumstances, and certainly not for a case like this.  Otherwise, he wouldn’t have brought in two outside consultants to do the groundwork for him.  One, maybe, but not two.  It was a thorough fabrication, but a fabrication nonetheless. 

That begged a serious question, though – how did this man know what L looked like? Less than half a handful knew that, and even fewer knew that the owner of that face was L.  This man must have, since there was no other reason why he would bother imitating a man that strange.  Who was he? Why did he know L? What was his endgame? And if he knew L, did he know me, too? I didn’t recognize him at all underneath the makeup, and he hadn’t indicated he knew me.  Nevertheless, there was a niggling feeling in the back of my brain, like there was something blatantly obvious that I wasn’t seeing.

_Focus, Watson.  One thing at a time.  This guy was under the bed the whole time, so he must’ve heard Naomi talking to L.  Find out what he knows, then take care of him.  The rest can all happen afterwards._

“A private detective without a license,” I insisted, glaring at the faker.  “And you were hired by Believe Bridesmaid’s parents to find out who murdered their son.”

“By the parents of all three victims, actually.”

“And you were investigating the crime scene when you heard us approaching.  You thought we might be the killer returning to the scene, so you hid under the bed.”

“Correct.” He shifted slightly, scratching one foot with the other.

Suspicious.  Painfully, stupidly suspicious.  Full of more holes than the Titanic.  I thought back to my deduction that the killer would be monitoring the crime scene in order to watch the investigators flounder.  _But hiding right under the bed, the most obvious place...no one could be that idiotic, right?_

“What about you two?” Ryuzaki asked, swiveling his head quizzically.  “How do I know you two aren’t the killers after all?”

Naomi and I glanced at each other.  Saying we were FBI was out of the question.  Saying we were with L was even further out of the question.  We would have to improvise.  Luckily, I was prepared for a situation like this.  I reached into my purse, pulled out a business card, and put it on the table in front of Ryuzaki.  “I’m a private investigator.” The card said as much, along with my mobile number and email.  I’d had cards like these made my first day in Los Angeles, and I’d also used my computer savvy to create a web presence for a false PI business.  That way, if anyone caught me investigating the crime scene of one of my cases and tried to research me, my story would check out.

“I am also a detective,” Naomi added after a moment.

Dark eyes locked onto her.  “No card?”

“Fresh out.” She pressed her lips into a thin line.  _Sorry, Naomi._

“That’s not good.  One should always be prepared for this sort of situation.”

I didn’t know about him, but I typically don’t have to deal with potential serial killers crawling out from under beds too often.

Ryuzaki reached over, gripped my card between thumb and forefinger, and lifted it up above his head, craning his neck with his shoulders still hunched.

“My client would rather remain anonymous,” I said after a few minutes of silence, anticipating the next question.  Naomi nodded in agreement.

After another few moments, Ryuzaki put the card back on the table, pulled out a handkerchief, and wiped his fingers.  “A detective called Watson?” he asked.  “You should have called yourself Holmes.”

I gave him a tight-lipped smile.  “Casey Watson is my actual name.” _Now._

“Ah, yes, of course.  Forgive me for overlooking something so –” The corner of his mouth quirked upwards. “– _elementary_.”

It would almost be worth throttling him right there.

The interview continued.  Ryuzaki’s investigation had ground to a halt, and he wanted to share information with us.  We refused, so be proposed he give us all his information in exchange for nothing.  Oddly, his main focal point was the same as ours – the idea that the killer had left a message behind pointing to the next crime.  In addition, he had a copy of the crossword puzzle sent to the LAPD.  When we asked how he had gotten, he replied that that was one of his secrets as a detective.  My serial killer theory was looking pretty good, especially with that puzzle, but there was still no definitive proof either way. I couldn’t just toss him out, phone conversation or not, without any evidence.  In the end, Naomi and I would have to ask L what to do.  After all, this was technically his investigation.

After this revelation, Ryuzaki suddenly stood up and shuffled out of the room, heading for the kitchen and claiming that it was lunchtime.  He returned a moment later with a jar of jam.  No bread, no crackers, no utensils.   _Oh, God, he’s not going to_...he was.  He unscrewed the lid and began scooping out fistfuls of jam, which he then slurped up noisily.  Naomi recoiled as though struck, horrified.  For my part, I was furious.  That was the last straw.  _How dare you, whoever you are.  How fucking dare you taunt your betters like that.  You think he can help the way he is? You think this is all just some big joke?_

Ryuzaki’s eye rolled to rest on me, his head remaining still.  “Is something the matter, Miss Watson?”

I stared at him.  Naomi tugged on my sleeve, and I realized that I was on my feet, fists clenched and arms locked to my sides, practically trembling with rage.  “It’s nothing,” I said through clenched teeth after a moment.  “Just surprised.”

“Oh? Have I done something particularly surprising?”

“You have strange eating habits,” Naomi clarified.  She looked a little green about the gills.

“Do I? I don’t think so.  When I start thinking, I get a craving for sweets.  If I want to work well, jam is essential.  Sugar is good for the brain.”

The exact same logic L used...whoever he was, he’d done his homework. I forced myself to take a deep breath and sit back down.  Naomi let go of my arm, looking concerned.

Ryuzaki turned back to me.  “Sugar is good for mood swings, too.  Would you like some jam?”

“No.  Thank you.” I couldn’t remember ever wanting anything less.

Undeterred, he shoveled another handful out of the jar and held it out, dripping reddish gloop on the table.  “Unfortunately I don’t have a spoon, but don’t worry.  My fingers are quite clean.”

I liked to think the look I gave him would have gotten me convicted of witchcraft in a less enlightened age.

“No? What about you, Miss Misora?”

Naomi, perhaps practiced from living with Raye, scowled even deeper.

“Suit yourself.”

After several more agonizing minutes, Ryuzaki finally slurped up the entire jar and licked his long fingers clean.  Then he stood up and peered at both of us in turn.  “Shall we go?”

“Go where?” Naomi and I said together.

“Obviously, to continue our investigation of the crime scene.”

 _Our_ investigation? No way.  The last place this guy needed to be was our crime scene.  Even if he wasn’t so suspicious, it would be dangerous having someone on L’s investigation who wasn’t with L.  Still, we had no good reason not to, for the moment, and if we played along for a while, then we might learn something from this man.  At any rate, he was already shuffling off toward the bedroom, so Naomi and I had no choice but to follow.

Once inside, the bizarre behavior continued.  Ryuzaki dropped to all fours and began crawling around the room, nose to the floor and ass in the air.  He looked like a misshapen bloodhound, or else something out of The Exorcist.  Naomi and I exchanged appalled glances.  As far as I knew, L had never done anything that creepy; still, after nearly ten years, he may have developed new habits.

Hoping to prompt an exchange of information, or else stop the crawling, Naomi made the executive decision to show Ryuzaki the crime scene photos.  She explained her theory that the killer’s message, the thing that ought to be here but wasn’t, was Bridesmaid himself.  Ryuzaki agreed, but pointed out that the letters on Bridesmaid’s chest weren’t letters at all, but Roman numerals.  16, 59, 1423, 159, 13, 7, 582, 724, 1001, 40, 51, 31.  I could’ve slapped myself.  How on earth had I missed that?

“Excuse me, Ryuzaki, Casey,” Naomi said.  “I need to refresh my makeup.”

She was out of the room before either of us could respond, and I heard her footsteps on the stairs shortly after.  She must’ve been going to call L, or maybe just wanted to get away from Ryuzaki.  _Traitor_.  Still, I couldn’t deny that this was an opportunity; if he really did know me, then he might say something incriminating while Naomi was out of the room.

“I feel badly for you, Miss Watson,” Ryuzaki said after a moment.

“How so?” I responded, only half paying attention.  _The message wouldn’t make sense if those numbers were pointing to anything outside the scene of the crime...and the only numbered thing in this room..._

“With a name like Watson, no one really expects anything of you, do they? The original character was quite bumbling.”

“He wasn’t, actually.  Only later adaptations portrayed him like that.  Conan Doyle’s Watson was a soldier, a doctor, and quite capable by all accounts.  It’s just that anyone would look stupid standing next to a genius.”

“Excellent point.  Still, the preconceived notion remains, and I could see how it would put you at a disadvantage.  Particularly with that face.”

My head snapped around.  “ _Excuse_ me?”

“Your face is quite unremarkable in every sense of the word.  One would forget it as soon as one sees it.”

I took a few more deep breaths.  “That’s a very rude thing to say, Ryuzaki.”

“Is it? I didn’t mean to insult you.” He put his finger to his mouth and leaned forward slightly.  “I was merely surprised.  Usually, if one bothers to get plastic surgery, one tries to make one’s new face aesthetically appealing.  You have not.”

I stared at him.  There was a roaring sound in my ears.  “What?”

He pointed to his own ear.  “When you leaned over the table to give me your card, a lock of hair shifted, and I noticed the scars.  Your surgeon was excellent, but even the most skilled leave evidence of the procedure behind.”

“Y-you...” _No, no, calm down.  Calm down.  This hasn’t made you.  Surgery tells him nothing.  You’re safe.  You’re safe._

“Miss Misora is taking quite a long time, isn’t she?” Ryuzaki went on, glancing toward the door.  “Shall we fetch her?” Without waiting for a reply, he shuffled off again. 

I didn’t follow.  Instead I sat on the edge of the bed and tried to get my breathing under control.  Scars...I hadn’t thought of that.  L and I would never meet face to face anyway, so I never considered a scar here or there a problem.  Even if something happened, it wouldn’t necessarily mean plastic surgery, which wouldn’t necessarily mean C.  But if this guy had figured it out…

Ryuzaki and Naomi returned a few minutes later, the latter looking chastised.  Ryuzaki must have interrupted her call with L.  Yet another problem to worry about.

I stood up and forced myself to appear unconcerned.  “Good timing.  I’ve been thinking about those numbers, and I think I have something.” I pointed to the bookshelves.  “Those books.  I only thought of it since we were talking about it, Ryuzaki, but in one of the Holmes stories, he uses a book cipher.  There are numbers that correspond to page numbers and word order in a certain book, and that’s how the criminals communicate.  I thought that since the books are the only numbered things in this room, maybe that’s what the message is pointing to.”

Naomi’s eyes widened.  “Wow, Casey.  That’s actually a really good idea.” I chose to take that as a compliment.

“Indeed, I agree wholeheartedly with your theory,” Ryuzaki added.  “The only problem is, which book are we to use? The killer did not specify.”

My shoulders sagged.  “I dunno...in the Holmes story, it was an almanac, which everyone owned at the time.  There’s nothing like that here, though...”

In the end, Ryuzaki was once again our vehicle for deduction.  He pointed out what I had noticed, but not seen: one of Believe Bridesmaid’s manga series, _Akazukin Chacha_ , was missing two volumes.  Neither Naomi nor I thought that was weird, but Ryuzaki was beside himself.  In no uncertain terms, he explained that _Akazukin Chacha_ was a _manga_ of such high quality that a reader would never even consider skipping over a single chapter, let alone two volumes.  The killer, he hypothesized, had taken the two volumes with him.  Furthermore, since the shelf was so jam-packed with books, the two volumes must have been replaced with one of equal length.  The only book that fit that description was  Insufficient Relaxation at 376 pages long.

We went through the Roman numerals again, taking the first letter of the first word on each corresponding page.  For numerals higher than the number of pages, we subtracted 376 from the total and wrapped around to the remainder.  When we had gone through the entire message, we were left with QUTRTEAETEEN.

“That’s almost the second victim’s name,” I said, grinning with triumph.

Ryuzaki, however, looked despondent.  “One third of the letters are wrong.  If even one letter is different, then the entire theory falls apart.  Unless it matches perfectly, it’s not worth calling a message.”

But this time, it was Naomi who reached the answer.  The letters that didn’t fit were the ones for which we’d needed to wrap around.  On those, if we shifted over one letter for each wrap, then “QUTRTEAETEEN” became “QUARTER QUEEN.” We’d cracked the code.

“Well done, you two,” Ryuzaki said, unsmiling.  “I couldn’t have done it any better myself.”

_But you did.  We frosted the cake, but you baked it.  Just who are you?_


	13. 3.3: Stalemate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death Note (c) 2003 Ohba Tsugumi and Obata Takeshi. Another Note: The Los Angeles BB Murder Cases (c) 2006 Nisio Isin. All rights reserved.

**Chapter 3: Stalemate**

“So I take it that – you know, the boss – signed off on Ryuzaki, seeing as you didn’t boot him out once you got off the phone?”

The sun had set, and Naomi and I were sharing a table at my favorite Japanese restaurant.  The food reminded me of my days before the House, and this time there was the added bonus of deterring Ryuzaki from joining us, since there was nothing sweet enough for his tastes.  I had the pork ramen; Naomi had the donburi.

Naomi rolled her eyes.  “He thinks we should find out exactly what Ryuzaki knows before we make any rash moves.  At the very least, we could use him as a valuable resource in the investigation.  His words, not mine.”

I stuck out my tongue, making Naomi laugh. Whatever animosity there had been between us this morning had disappeared.  We were united in hatred of the interloper. 

Naomi might just have been put off by his bizarre behavior, but Ryuzaki disturbed me in an entirely different way.  No matter what he had said, the fact remained that he, not we, had cracked the killer’s message.  He had identified the Roman numerals.  He had pointed out the manga, and told us which book to use.  He had even put the idea of the book cipher in my head in the first place – had we not been discussing Sherlock Holmes, I wouldn’t have remembered the technique from the story.  He had solved everything, while carefully manipulating the situation to make it seem like Naomi and I were the ones doing the heavy lifting.  That certainly put a hole in my killer theory; after all, why would he help us catch himself? Sure, his goal was most likely to bring us close to catching him and watch us fail miserably in the end, but this gambit was far too risky.  If it were me, I would just leave the messages, install some cameras, and be done with it.  _Unless he wants to drive home how stupid we are by being right under our noses the whole time_...still, even if that was the case, I could do nothing without concrete proof.  We couldn’t arrest the guy just for being suspicious.  To find evidence of a crime, we needed to keep him close.

Besides, whether or not Ryuzaki was the killer was not my biggest concern right now.  It was that Ryuzaki, judging from that performance, was much smarter than I’d originally thought.  _Much_ smarter.  Add that to the fact that he knew what L looked and acted like, and it was becoming more and more likely that Ryuzaki had been part of, or at least connected to, Wammy’s House.  The problem with that was that I didn’t remember him, and with an attitude and habits like those, I’m positive I wouldn’t have just forgotten him.  He couldn’t have come after me, either; L had left the House before I did, so anyone coming in after that wouldn’t have ever seen him.  Actually, come to think of it, even if the other kids had seen L’s face, they wouldn’t have been able to figure out that he was _the_ L.  I had only found out by accident, wandering around after hours where I wasn’t supposed to be.  His name, too, would be a mystery, since he hardly ever spoke to anyone besides me and Mr. Wammy.  At most, they’d recognize him as that weird kid from the Other Half of the House – the one not affiliated with the L program – who hung out with C all the time.  So how had this guy figured it out?  Who the hell was he? Once again, I felt like there was something I was missing, like the name of a song just on the tip of your tongue that you remember as soon as someone says it.  What, though?

I was jerked out of my reverie by Naomi’s hand waving before my eyes.  “Anybody home?”

“Sorry,” I said, shaking off the fog of deep thought.  “What did you say?”

“I asked if you were okay.  This was your first crime scene, right? I know how being in one can weigh you down.”  This time, her frown was sympathetic.

I smiled.  “Thanks, but I’m okay.”  With that, anyway.  “I actually have been to crime scenes before, but this was the first time I wasn’t sneaking past police tape or hacking into crime lab databases.  It was kind of nice to have that much freedom.”

Naomi looked at me for a moment.  Then she glanced around, and when she was positive the other customers were too focused on their meals to be paying attention, she leaned across the table and dropped her voice to a whisper.  “Then…you really are, aren’t you? Eraldo Coil.”

“I used to be.”  I stared into my bowl, remembering the thrill of the hunt, the triumph of a case-closing epiphany, the utter humiliation of my last defeat.  “You remember that bioterrorist attack in Rouen a few years ago? Everyone was saying how mind-boggling it was, how it was the crime that couldn’t be solved.”  My fists clenched.  “So we made it a competition.  L, Deneuve, and Coil – me.  The first one to solve the case and catch the terrorists wins.”  I shrugged and reached for the soy sauce with a shaky hand.  “L won, so I retired.  You don’t just get to carry on after losing the game that badly. Losing all those lives…”  The image of X and Y dying in agony flashed in front of me. 

“What exactly happened?”

I met her eyes, then smiled and turned back to my ramen.  “You should ask L.  He knows it better than I do.”

Silence blanketed the table.  It took a long time for Naomi to clear her throat and open her mouth again.  “What do you think of him?”

“L?” I looked up at the ceiling so that I wouldn’t have to look at her face. “It’s…complicated.  As a detective, he was my competition.  And honestly, I’m scared of him.  Scared of his power, scared of his skill.  Scared that one day he’ll look straight through me and I won’t be able to hide.  Everything I am now, this new life I’ve worked so hard to make for myself…he’ll look at me and it’ll all go away.”  I lowered my head.  Naomi’s expression said that she wanted to ask what that meant, but she kept quiet.  I loved her for it.  “But you know, as someone who believes in justice, and fought for it with everything I had…I respect L more than anyone else in the world.  If anyone can set it all right again, he can.”

Now it was Naomi’s turn to look away.  “You have a lot of faith in him.”

“You don’t?”

She hesitated, then shook her head.  “He’s arrogant, taking only cases that he’s interested in and ignoring everything else.  When I spoke to him, he’s been rude, self-centered, and inconsiderate.  He’s not just proud, he’s conceited, and that could cost him someday.  Cost him something important.”

I couldn’t help but chuckle.  “I agree with everything you just said.  But there’s more to him than that.  He’s a good man.”

“How do you know?”

“…Call it a detective’s intuition.”

More silence.  Remembering _him_ had put a cold pit in my stomach, just as it always did.  I drained my soda glass, swallowing thickly and wincing as the carbonation seared my throat.  “By the way,” I said, perhaps a bit too loudly, “I never got a chance to congratulate you.  On the engagement, I mean.”

She blinked, surprised.  “Oh.  Thank you.”

“Gotta say, you can do a lot better than Raye Penber.  Nice guy, not bad-looking, but zero tact.”

She giggled.  “I know, right? I still can’t believe he asked me _now_ , of all times.”  Her smile faded, and she looked away again.

“I can’t believe you said yes,” I countered, trying to drag her away from the memories.

It seemed to work; she lifted her head and smiled again.  “Yeah, I surprised myself at first.  But I thought about it for a bit, and I realized that no matter when Raye asked, my answer would still be the same.  I might as well have said it then.”  Her expression softened, and her gaze turned to some point only she could see.  A faint shade of pink colored her cheeks.  “It’s like…Raye just makes me better.  It’s not just that he makes me want to be a better person – I mean, he does, but not just that.  When I’m with him, I feel like everything’s going to be okay.  Even now with the Bureau…all I need to do is hear Raye’s voice, and it’s like it never even happened.  I can’t remember anything bad ever happening to me.”  Her smile was sheepish.  “Sorry, I’m rambling a bit…” I assured her that I didn’t mind, that it was cute hearing her talk about him like that.  She giggled again.  “Thanks.  So, um, do you have anyone like that?”

The pit, which had lessened somewhat during Naomi’s speech, swelled again and plummeted down to somewhere deep in my gut.  “I used to.”

“Oh.  Um…I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“Do you mind if I ask what happened?”

I didn’t speak for a few minutes, trying to find the best way to say it without saying the things I shouldn’t.  “He went away,” I decided on at last.  “I haven’t seen him since.  It was a long time ago, and – well, it’s hard to explain, but the way I think about him has changed since I got older.  I don’t know exactly if I ever, you know, _loved_ him, but now I don’t know what to think of him at all.  I care about him, but at the same time…”  At the same time, I was terrified of him.  He had the power to make or unmake me with just a single word.  My life was literally in his hands.  Plus, even if I knew exactly what the hell I was feeling, no good would come of it.  He couldn’t return any feeling I had, whatever it was.  His brain wasn’t wired for such things.  Logic, reason, and deduction, that’s all he knew.  Feelings weren’t part of that.  I wasn’t, either.

“Sorry,” Naomi said again.  I opened my mouth to thank her but couldn’t force any sound out.

-

We paid for our food and went our separate ways, promising to meet up again tomorrow, August 16th, at the scene of the second murder – the studio apartment just down the door from mine.  Naomi took off up Third Avenue on her motorcycle, while I traveled down it on foot.  The restaurant was less than ten minutes away from my building via the main road, crowded in the evening hours now that the harsh summer sun had set.  I elected to take the winding back alleys so that I could stay out of sight and earshot.  There was something important I had to do, and I couldn’t risk waiting till I was home; the walls of my apartment were so thin that anyone on the floor might be able to hear what I was doing.  As soon as the dull roar of traffic faded behind me, I pulled out my phone and dialed the number I’d been given.  I pressed the phone to my ear, glancing around for any unexpected eavesdroppers. 

 He picked up on the third ring.  “This is L.”

So soon after that awkward conversation with Naomi, hearing his disguised voice again made my mouth dry.  I swallowed with difficulty.  “It’s Casey.”

“Greetings, Casey Watson.  Are you making a report on your findings?”

“Yeah.  How much has Naomi told you?”

“All of it, but I would like you to do the same.  As I said, a different point of view of the same event can be quite valuable in forming conclusions.”

He had a point.  Obediently, I walked him through the day’s events, explaining our process for finding and deciphering the message.  When I got to the appearance of Ryuzaki, my voice tightened; I wouldn’t fool myself by saying that L hadn’t noticed, but he did not comment on it.  I left out the conversation with Ryuzaki about my surgery, but otherwise kept in every detail.

“I see,” L said when I’d finished.  “Well done, Casey Watson.  I see that my expectations of your deductive skills were not unfounded.”

Was he making fun of me? “I don’t feel like I did much.  Like I said, Ryuzaki’s the one who put us on that train of thought, and he did most of the reasoning himself.”

“Do not discount your contribution.  Placing even one piece of the puzzle is quite significant.  At any rate, as long as you are the one who solves the case in the end, these individual steps will not matter so much.”

“Me?” Not him? Not Naomi? I thought I was supposed to be his proxy in the field, not do his entire job for him.

“Oh, yes.  Your presence here is more important than you realize. I think it quite safe to say that without you, this entire enterprise would be meaningless.”

“…”

What the hell was that supposed to mean? Why was _I_ so important to the case? Did Naomi not matter? Catching the killer? The three people who had already lost their lives, or the unknown number of deaths we were trying to prevent? A sudden realization struck me: if I’m the one who’s supposed the investigate and solve the _wara ningyo_ murders, then just what was L investigating? There was only one answer – he was investigating me.  In that case, did he know who I was already? No, surely he would have said something…unless this whole farce of an investigation was just a test, and me solving it according to his standards – solving it like a Wammy kid – would only prove who I was.  Should I quit, then? Out of the question.  There was still a killer on the loose, and if I could stop him, then I would.  No matter what.

“Now, then,” L was saying.  “When she gave her report earlier, Naomi Misora expressed concerns about the man you discovered under the first victim’s bed.  Am I correct in assuming that you share her concerns?”

I forced myself back into the conversation.  “Well, yeah.  The guy materializes at the crime scene, tells a half-baked story about being a private detective, has a copy of the crossword puzzle only you and the killer should have, and practically solves the first riddle for us.  He couldn’t be more suspicious if he walked around chuckling evilly and twirling a handlebar moustache.”

“I see,” L replied after a brief pause.  “I have taken the liberty of conducting a background investigation on Rue Ryuzaki, and I can tell you that a private detective by that name was indeed hired by the parents of our three victims.  However, there is no record of his business beyond that, nor have I found any other information on his life.  I have not even found a shred of evidence as to the very existence of a man called Rue Ryuzaki.”

“ _You_ couldn’t find anything?” If Ryuzaki could hide from the world’s greatest detective, then he was certainly a force to be reckoned with, whoever he ended up being.  Just what was he hiding?

“I’m flattered by your high opinion of me.”

“You beat me, L.  I’d hate to think that was just a fluke.”

“Don’t worry.  It wasn’t.”

_Asshat._

“I’m curious, Casey Watson.  Naomi Misora seemed to have an unusually low opinion of Rue Ryuzaki, particularly in regards to his atypical social habits.  What are your thoughts?”

My thoughts were that Ryuzaki was a liar and an imposter, but I couldn’t say as much.  If I said that he was imitating L, then that would show that I knew what L looked and acted like.  If I said he was wearing a disguise, then L would ask how I knew, and I couldn’t answer that convincingly.  Either way, the likelihood that I was C would skyrocket.  To stall for time, I asked him to be more specific. 

“Was he cool?”

I staggered to a halt.  “…Excuse me?”

L repeated the question.  Was that supposed to be a joke?

“That’s a matter of opinion,” I said at last.  “I thought he was a weird guy who did weird things, but I don’t hold the way he is against him or anything.  Not the way it sounds like Naomi does, anyway.”

“I see.  That’s a very interesting answer.”

Was it, though? “L, while I’ve got you, there’s a question I’d like to ask.”

“Certainly.”

“The crossword puzzle gave us the address where the first murder took place.  The book cipher gave us the name of the second victim.  It’s safe to say that the message at the second crime scene will lead us to the third murder in some way, right?”

“That appears to be the pattern, yes.”

“In that case,” I continued, “rather than searching the second crime scene for something we already know we’ll find, wouldn’t it be smarter to investigate the third crime scene and look for a clue about this fourth murder you think will happen?”

“Not at all.”  He didn’t even hesitate.

“But aren’t we doing this to prevent more deaths? If we know where the murderer’s going to go –”

“I understand your impatience, Casey Watson, but it is still too soon to investigate the third murder.  If you skipped the second crime scene, then you may miss vital clues as to the killer’s methodology and habits.”

“I don’t want to understand him,” I replied through gritted teeth.  “I want to stop him.”

“It is possible that the killer will assume his pursuers will have found all preceding messages first, and would have made the fourth one impossible to understand otherwise.”

“But what if we’re too late? What if the fourth murder happens while we’re searching for an answer we already know?” I was practically shouting by this point.

L’s voice was still calm.  “You don’t need to worry about that.  There is an eighty percent chance that –”

Whatever there was an eighty percent chance for, I’d never get to hear it, because at that point, I realized that something was wrong.  From behind me, I’d heard a faint crackling sound, like the crunch of a leaf or discarded newspaper.  The hairs on the back of my neck were standing up, and goosebumps were starting to prickle on my arms.  No sooner had I registered the thought _I’m being followed_ than I felt the air behind me shift, as though something was slicing through it.

There was a trashcan just off to my left.  In one swift, fluid motion, I snatched the lid off the can, turned on my heel, and flung the lid up before my face.  Just in time – something fast and heavy connected with the lid, sending painful jolts up my arms and causing a resounding _crash_ to echo around the alley.  I glanced around the lid to see a tall, thin figure in a ski mask, wielding a police baton in one hand and a blackjack in the other.  It was the blackjack he had swung.  The handle of the trashcan lid was broken, unattached on one side, and the blackjack had caught on the edge, spilling sand onto the ground.  With all my strength, I yanked the lid up and away from me, sending the blackjack flying out of my assailant’s hands.  It flopped to the ground, already having lost about a fifth of the sand it contained.  It would be useless to either of us as a weapon, so I left it where it was.  _Damn it! Of all the times not to have my gun!_

I took a fighting stance, brandishing the lid before me like a shield.  The assailant raised the police baton and waited, bouncing on the balls of his feet.  We stared each other down for a moment, and then the assailant tossed the baton at me as though it were a javelin.  I deflected it with the lid, causing another racket as metal met metal; when my vision was unobstructed again, I saw the assailant in full retreat, rounding the corner and going out of my sight.

It was over as quickly as it had begun.  The lid dropped from my hand and clattered to the ground.  I followed suit, knees buckling and breathing hard.  The sound of the weapons striking the trash can rang in my ear, and my jolted arm muscles were trembling. I gulped down huge lungfuls of air, adrenaline still rushing through my veins.  That was too close.

It took me a moment to realize that I had dropped my phone when I grabbed the trashcan lid.  I crawled over to where it had fallen.  The call was still connected; as I put it to my ear, I heard L saying, “Casey Watson, what’s happening? Where are you? Casey!” He sounded agitated through the synthesizer.

“Here!” I said, still struggling for breath.  “I’m here, I’m fine.”

“What happened?”

“I was just attacked.  Big guy in a ski mask.  He took off.”

“Are you hurt?”

“No, no, I’m okay.  He took a few swings at me with a club, but I’m not hurt.  I don’t think he was trying to hurt me,” I added, realizing it just as I said it.  “I think that might have been a test.  Checking my instincts or my reflexes or whatever.”

“I see.”  He was silent a moment.  “In which case, there is a strong possibility that the man you just fought –”

“– is the killer,” I finished.  “Testing to see if I was good enough – if I was worthy of taking him on.”

“Precisely.  He must know that you are investigating him.”

“How could he have known that?” More importantly, what else did he know? Was Naomi in danger? Ryuzaki? L?

“I cannot say.  However, it does seem likely that your search is on the right track, given his response.”

I let out a wheezy laugh.  “Somehow that doesn’t make me feel better.”

“My apologies. Are you quite certain you are all right? Shall I mobilize the police?”

“No.  They won’t find him, he’s too clever for that.  And anyway –” Though it was the last thing I wanted to do, I felt myself smile.  “– that would be cheating, wouldn’t it? I can’t beat him unless I beat him at his own game.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” L said.  “It seems that you and I have very similar mindsets with regard to this sort of thing.”

No, we didn’t.  We had never thought the same way about solving crimes.  He saw them as a puzzle to complete, a game to be won.  Try as I might, I could never think of the people involved that way.  They were not chess pieces; they were human lives.  They had hopes and dreams and loved ones, just the same as I did.  If I ever forgot that, then I could no longer call myself human.  That’s why Coil had lost to L.  That’s why C had left Wammy’s House – because she could not become L, could not adopt his mindset.  And if she tried, then everything she was – _I_ was – would disappear.  I would die like A, or lose my mind like B.  And even if I somehow made it through with my sanity, the thing that would be left would have no trace of _me_ left in it.  I couldn’t accept that.

But just now, I was thinking like L…does that mean my self is already dying? Or did I make a mistake after all…?


	14. 3.4: Epiphany

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death Note (c) 2003 Ohba Tsugumi and Obata Takeshi. Another Note: The Los Angeles BB Murder Cases (c) 2006 Nisio Isin. All rights reserved.

**Chapter 4: Epiphany**

The man calling himself Rue Ryuzaki arrived at my apartment the next morning promptly at nine AM.  He caught me in the middle of putting in my colored contacts, and I only just remembered to put the other one in before opening the door.  He had already caught my fake face; fake eyes wouldn’t help matters.  At least he hadn’t caught me touching up my roots.

“Hello,” he said as soon as I’d opened the door.  “You don’t seem to be ready yet.”  He shambled uninvited over the threshold and kicked off a pair of dirty Converse.  No socks, of course.  I wrinkled my nose.

He was right; I’d only just gotten out of the shower and my hair was still wet.  I only had an undershirt and jeans on, too, but I didn’t mind answering the door like that.  It wasn’t like anything crucial wasn’t covered up, though my bra straps were peeking out from the edge of the fabric.  “Yeah, I need a couple minutes.  I thought you’d be coming later.”

“Did we not say nine o’clock?”

“Well, yeah, but usually – forget it.  Make yourself at home.”  He already had, crouching on my sofa/bed and leafing through the book I’d been reading the night before, pinching the corner of each page between thumb and forefinger.  I rolled my eyes and went back into the bathroom.

I’d slipped into an old novelty T-shirt (“√-1 23 ∑ π, and it was delicious”) and had just started drying my hair when I heard the dull hum of Ryuzaki’s voice from the other room.  I sighed and switched off the hairdryer.  “Say again?”

“I said, you have a lovely home.”

I snorted.  “The hell I do.”  The complex was designed for the budget of a college student living alone.  My entire apartment was smaller than Believe Bridesmaid’s bedroom, containing only a tiny kitchen, a tinier bathroom, and a third room that was simultaneously living room and bedroom.  Unlike most students, I actually did have the budget for something a little more spacious, thanks to my Coil income, but living in conditions other than these would be beyond conspicuous.  I didn’t mind the cramped quarters, anyway; I didn’t have much stuff, and with only three rooms, there was nowhere for an intruder to hide.

Ryuzaki was insistent.  “Nonsense, it is quite cozy.  You obviously place very little value in material things.  I respect that.”

“I wouldn’t go that far, but yeah, I try to keep only the essentials.”

“And you would consider these hefty Sherlock Holmes novels essential?”

I gave up the hairdryer for a bad job and settled for my towel.  “Problem with my taste in books, Ryuzaki?”

“Not a problem, per se, but I’m curious as to why you have so many.  Are you cultivating a rivalry with an imaginary colleague?”

My fists clenched, wrinkling the fabric of the towel.  “Not exactly.  I like figuring out the answers, sure, and they’re pretty well-written.  But I think the thing I like most about them are the endings.”

“Endings?”

“Yeah.”  My hair was damp but serviceable, so I hung up the towel and reached for the foundation.  “They’re surprisingly mundane.  Things like, ‘let’s go get a cup of tea,’ or, ‘if we hurry, we’ll make the last train.’  After all those crazy cases and mind-blowing solutions, it’s like a reordering of things, putting everything back in its proper place.”

“And that sort of thing is satisfying to you?”

“Oh, yeah.  It was to the original readership, too.  The nineteenth and early twentieth centuries were a time of great uncertainty.  New technology, new scientific theories, exposure to new cultures and different ways of thinking…the older crowd was freaking out, wondering if anything would ever feel familiar and safe to them again.  But with these stories, it’s like, no matter how messed up it gets, things can always go back to normal in the end.”  I smiled at my reflection.  “That’s pretty comforting, you know?”

“No, I do not.”

I jumped; the voice had come from much closer this time, and I could see Ryuzaki’s panda-like face hovering close to mine in the mirror.  I hadn’t even heard him.  “Christ, Ryuzaki! Don’t you know not to go into the bathroom while a girl’s using it?”

“I do not see the value in normalcy,” he went on as if he hadn’t heard.  “If someone possesses an ability that sets them apart from ordinary humans, would that not make them special? Surely being special is a good thing.”

“No, it isn’t.”  I met his reflection’s gaze rather than his.  “Being special is just another way to say that you’re different.  I’ve met people who are different, and not a single one has been truly happy.  Their specialness makes them miserable.  But if they were normal, then they won’t have to deal with the pain being special brings.  They won’t have the weight of impossible expectations, and they won’t be held responsible for the things they can’t fix.  They can just live happily, the way they choose.”  In my mind’s eye, I once again saw A’s head lolling over the edge of the tub, eyes sightless, crimson blood staining the bathwater, wrists open and weeping.  I shuddered.

“So you are speaking from personal experience.  Are you referring to your powers of deduction? I noticed yesterday that they were quite well-developed.”

No way to get out of this one, and I was too tired to even try.  “Yeah, that’s right.  Stuff like that comes naturally to me.”

Ryuzaki’s expression did not visually change, but watching it, I sensed something happening below the surface, like ripples spreading from the point a stone had broken the water’s surface.  “Forgive me for saying so, but you have an incredibly naïve way of thinking.”

I froze.  “What do you – ?”

“You have a gift, Miss Watson.  You cannot suppress it, nor can you be rid of it altogether.  Simply by having this gift, you cannot be normal, not completely.  This ideal you seek is an impossibility.  Moreover, to have a gift and not use it is a waste of your potential.  You must hone it, cultivate it, surpass others with the same gift.  Otherwise, there is no point in its existence – no point in _your_ existence.”

 _I know._ I know that much at least.  Since I was able to help others, then I had to help others.  It was my responsibility.  That’s why I had continued to take on cases even after leaving the House.  However, with the way I was doing things now, I was still me.  I was not broken by the pressure.  The fate of nations did not hang on my very word.  To take it further, to become like L…

“I can’t, though,” I whispered, more to myself than Ryuzaki.  “I’m not capable of surpassing anybody.  I just don’t have what it takes.”

For a moment, the blankness in Ryuzaki’s eyes was wiped away, revealing something cold and cruel.  “Perhaps.  Or perhaps you simply are not willing to try.”

I turned to face him at last, but he was already back out in the other room.  “Miss Misora is taking quite a while, isn’t she? Perhaps it would be prudent to start without her.  Time and murder wait for no man.”

There was nothing for it.  I wiped my eyes and hurried after him, trying to remember where I’d put the keys to the Queens’ apartment.

-

Thirteen-year-old Quarter Queen had been murdered on August 4th, four days after the death of Believe Bridesmaid.  The room had been locked, the same as the last time.  She had been drugged, same as the last time.  No fingerprints, same as the last time.  Two things, however, were different.  First were the _wara ningyo_.  They were present at the scene, nailed to the walls at waist height, which had been the giveaway that this was the work of a serial killer.  This time, though, there were three instead of four.  The other was the cause of death.  Rather than strangulation, the killer had caved in Quarter’s skull from behind using some sort of blunt instrument.  Post mortem, he had gouged out her eyeballs and crushed them beneath his boot, leaving her glasses still on her face.

Just like with A, I’d been the one who’d discovered the body.  Nina Queen was a single mother, and had been on a business trip at the time.  Concerned about her young daughter being left alone, she’d asked me to check on Quarter in the mornings and evenings, on the way to school and from work.  Quarter had been her usual cheerful self that morning, so I thought it would be all right if I stopped on the way home for something for the two of us to eat, rather than hurry back right away.  I was mistaken.  Last week, when she’d gone to move back into her parents’ house, Nina told me not to blame myself because she certainly didn’t.  I wasn’t sure I believed her.

Now, while Ryuzaki crawled about the room looking for clues and struggling to avoid furniture, I sat on the tiny loveseat and stared at the one clear space on the floor where Quarter’s body had been.  I could still smell the rank, metallic tang of blood, still see the crushed eyeballs liquefying into the carpet, still see the two gaping dark holes behind cracked glasses.  I shivered, bile rising in my throat.  Every now and then, Ryuzaki would glance over my way, but he did not prompt me; he must’ve known from the police reports about my involvement.

At 9:20, Naomi stumbled in, looking pale and disheveled.  Ryuzaki looked up from Quarter’s underwear drawer, which he had been rifling through a bit too intently.  “Ah, Miss Misora.  You’re late.  Please try to be on time.  Time is money, and therefore life.”  She mumbled an apology, and Ryuzaki went back to the drawer.

Naomi looked over at me.  _Are you okay?_ I mouthed. 

She shook her head, and when she was sure Ryuzaki wasn’t paying attention, came over to sit on the arm of the loveseat.  “I was attacked on the way here,” she whispered, moving her mouth as little as possible.

My eyes widened.  “Third Avenue alley, ski mask, blackjack and club?”

She mimicked my bug-eyed look.  “You too?”

“Last night.”

We couldn’t delve any deeper into the conversation, for Ryuzaki was prompting us to start investigating, apparently fed up with being the only one working.  He and Naomi began going over the police reports again, while I wandered around, picking things up and putting them back down, thinking.  So the killer, or whoever he had hired, knew that both Naomi and I were working on the case.  Naomi looked shaken, but not harmed, meaning that the killer was trying to test her as well.  What would he gain from that, though? Why not take us both out? Was this more of his hubris, letting us go and watching us scurry around like ants while he waited for the sun to shine on his magnifying glass? What the actual hell did he want?

I tuned back in to hear Naomi say, “Yesterday, _we_ –” There was a great deal of emphasis on that word.  “– decoded the message the killer left at the scene of the first murder, but the _wara ningyo_ and the locked room remain mysteries.”

Ryuzaki abandoned the drawer and spider-crawled across the room again.  “Yes, but I don’t think it’s worth wasting much time on the locked room issue.  This is not a mystery novel – realistically speaking, it’s quite possible he simply used a spare key.”

I snorted.  “Do you really think, after everything he’s done so far, the killer would do something so prosaic? Everything up till now has been a piece of a puzzle, a part of the game.  There’s been nothing purposeless about anything he’s done so far.  The locked room has a point.”

All three of us looked over at the front door.  It had a thumb-turn lock, just as the door at the other two scenes had.  Misora walked over and jiggled the knob.  “If this _were_ a mystery novel…locked rooms are always created with a trick, like a needle and thread.  This door has plenty of gaps and chinks around the frame, not like Believe Bridesmaid’s bookshelves.  You could run a bit of string under it easily, tie it to the edge of the latch –”

Ryuzaki shook his head.  “Impossible.  The angle would kill the force applied, and too much of the string would be pressed against the door.  Before you could ever turn the latch, all the power you put into it would be eaten up pulling against the edge of the door.  Pulling the door toward you.”

Naomi deflated.  “That’s true…”

“And we can’t rule out the possibility that he simply had duplicate keys made.”  He dropped back to the floor.  “As I said, however, I think we should ignore the locked room for the moment.  It tells us nothing of the killer’s goal, and it won’t help us prevent the fourth murder.  I suggest we make finding the message our priority.”

I frowned at him.  He seemed unusually adamant about ignoring the locked room.  The killer, too, probably didn’t want us to focus on it; otherwise, he wouldn’t have made the rest of the crime scene so bewildering.  Perhaps the locks were more important than we’d initially realized.

So while Naomi and Ryuzaki searched for the message, I sat back down and concentrated on the door.  Ryuzaki was right; the needle and thread trick would not work with a thumb turn lock because of the angle.  But I couldn’t think of any other way for him to lock the door from the outside without using a key.  It had to be one of those methods, and since the killer would never do something that ordinary, it had to be the thread trick.  Which meant the angle had to change… _thumb turn lock…waist height…nothing purposeless…_ wara ningyo _…one less at each scene…the angle…the angle…the –_

I had it.

I’d seen L come up with case-cracking deductions before, and he’d made it look effortless, as simple as breathing.  A and the other kids had screwed up their faces and concentrated, and when they had it, bright beams spread across their faces.  It wasn’t like that with me.  Every time I had an epiphany like that, it was like it didn’t come from me it all.  I didn’t so much think of the answer as was consumed by it, as though someone had knocked me upside the head with a shovel.  The closest I could come to explaining it was that it was like someone else came up with the answer, unscrewed the top of my head, and crammed the answer inside where it didn’t mesh quite right.  L had said that was ridiculous.  Easy for him to say, the guy who pulled the answers right out of thin air.  So it came as no surprise when I found myself collapsed on the floor of the Queens’ apartment, migraine blazing, with a worried-looking Naomi bent over me and a curious-looking Ryuzaki standing above.

“Casey!” Naomi shouted, causing a fresh stab of pain through my head.  “Are you okay? What happened?”

I could only groan and clutch my head.  _There will only be…one doll…_ realizing I was about to be sick, I scrambled on all fours to the Queens’ bathroom.  I made it just in time, spewing my half-eaten muffin into the toilet.  Someone pulled my hair away from my face, and I heard Naomi murmur something unintelligible, yet comforting. 

When the heaving stopped, I sank down completely to the floor, the cool linoleum quenching the fire in my head.  I felt Naomi’s hand press against both cheeks, and then my forehead.  “You’re clammy, but I don’t think you have a fever,” she was saying.  “Did you lose consciousness just now?”

“Um…n-no, I don’t think so.”  Already the migraine was fading to a dull throb.  With Naomi’s help, I managed to sit up, clutching the edge of the bathtub for support.  “T-Thanks, Naomi.  I’m feeling better now.”

Her smile was relieved.  “Thank goodness.  What happened?”

I couldn’t tell her.  She had a glass face; there was no way she could stand before that man – that _devil_ – and act like everything was normal.  She was in no immediate danger, so there would be no harm in keeping her in the dark.  So I only smiled weakly and said.  “I guess…you know, being here again, thinking about her…I got a little overwhelmed.”

Now she looked sympathetic.  “I thought something like this might happen.  Honestly, someone so young and inexperienced shouldn’t be here after all.  What the hell was – well, never mind.  Ryuzaki and I will take care of everything, so let me bring you home.  Apartment 606, right?”

“Yeah, across the hall.”

She helped me to my feet, and with me leaning heavily on her, we left the apartment.  I did not make eye contact, but I could feel Ryuzaki’s gaze on me as we left.  Back at my place, Naomi helped me onto the sofa and, despite my protests, tucked a blanket over me and closed the blinds.

“There you go,” she said kindly.  “Need anything else? I can make a cup of tea if you want – you have tea, right? I could ask the neighbors…”

I let out a wheezy chuckle.  “You’ve got a real motherly instinct, huh, Naomi? You’ll be great with Raye.”

“Oh, stop.”  She was blushing again.  “Are you _sure_ you’re okay?”

“Fine.  Don’t leave Ryuzaki alone at the crime scene, he might go back to the panty drawer.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me.  Well, I’ll let you know what we come up with.  If you think of something you need, call me right away, okay? Don’t try to get up and pass out again.”

“Yes, Mother.”

She rolled her eyes, but in a good-natured way.  Then she was gone, leaving me to stare up at the ceiling and try to process what I just realized.

Rue Ryuzaki had killed three people, but he would not murder a fourth.  Not _murder_ , anyway.

It was the dolls that had made me think of it.  Not the dolls themselves, but the nails on which they hung.  The killer had indeed used the thread trick, and in order to get a better angle, he had looped the thread around the nails, giving enough purchase for the lock to turn.  From there, he simply tugged on one end of the thread and gradually reeled the whole thing in.  The number of dolls decreased at each scene, which made L think that there would be a fourth murder, since the number could still go from two to one.  The only problem was, the killer needed at least two dolls – two nails – to lock the door, or else he couldn’t recreate the necessary angle.  With only one doll, the only way to lock the door from the inside was by being in the room, which meant that the killer would have to hide from the police.

When was a killer not a killer? When he was the victim.  The killer was going to commit suicide and make it look like a fourth murder.  It was the only way he could recreate the conditions of the previous crime scenes without being caught.

What was the point of this? To never be caught.  To never have his crime be solved.  To stump everyone who ever tried solving it.  Including – _especially_ – the world’s greatest detective. 

Who would want to stump L? A Wammy kid.

Rue Ryuzaki was smart enough, manipulative enough, to be a Wammy kid.  He had solved everything while making it look like he had solved nothing, so that technically speaking, the police or FBI could never say that they solved even a single aspect of the case themselves.  He had been so keen to avoid the locked room and the _wara ningyo_ , because it was the one thing that could undo him.  He had been hiding under the bed, watching us squirm.  He wanted to hone his intellectual gifts, ‘surpass others with the same gift.’  He was trying to beat L.  _It’s been a few years.  Have they gotten down to R already? Or is he…?_

Although I couldn’t make out exactly what they were saying, I could hear the low buzz of Naomi and Ryuzaki’s voices from the Queens’ apartment.  They would be able to hear me, too.  I waited until an appropriate amount of time had passed, then slowly got up and went into the bathroom, grabbing my phone on the way.  I locked the door behind me, turned on the shower, and sat on the edge of the tub, away from the walls, stray droplets wetting my shirt.  I dialed the number, lifted the phone to my ear, and waited.

Two rings this time.  “This is L.”

“It’s me.”

“Greetings, Casey Watson.  I wasn’t expecting to hear from you so soon.  Is everything all right?”

“No.  No, it isn’t.”  There was a sour taste in my mouth that wasn’t entirely due to the vomit.  I swallowed, took a deep breath, and went on in a voice that was too calm.  “L, what exactly are you trying to do here?”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“I mean, what do you want me to do? Do you want me to stop the killer, do you want me to bring the killer to justice, or do you just want to stop the deaths?”

He was silent a moment, then said, “It seems as though you’ve unearthed some answers.”

“You’re damn right I have.”  I told him everything, except, of course, for my suspicions that Rue Ryuzaki was a Wammy kid.  “If I do nothing, then he’s going to kill himself.  He won’t be convicted, but no other innocent people are going to die.”  My grip involuntarily tightened on the phone until my hand started to shake.  I forced myself to relax.  “So I’m asking you, L, if you’re okay with that.  I’m asking you for orders.”

This time, he was quiet for so long that I wondered if the call hadn’t been dropped.  When he finally spoke, his voice was so soft that I had to strain to understand through the feedback of the synthesizer.  “Casey Watson, I must ask too much of you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Let’s say you were in my position.  In other words, I would like you to pretend that you are L.”

“…”

“Now, if you were me –”

“Don’t you _fucking_ dare!” I snapped before I could stop myself.

“ _Listen_.”  I shrank back, cowed by the intensity of his tone.  “If you were me, and the fate of this killer, whether he lived or died, was entirely up to you, then what would your decision be? Would you allow him to carry out his plans, or would you bring him to justice?”

“It’s not up to me, though.”

“Humor me.”

I thought for a moment.  “He can’t ever really carry out his plan, though, can he? He wanted to fool you, but you’ve already figured it out.”  Undoubtedly, he had already figured it out long before he called me.  He probably even knew the killer’s real identity.  _This has all been a test to prove that I think like him…like a Wammy kid…like C._

“That is true.”

“And arresting him and having him go through a long, drawn-out trial would be the ultimate humiliation.”

“That is also true.  So, Casey Watson, your answer?”

I considered it carefully, and when I responded, it was with conviction.  “I would arrest him.  No matter what, I wouldn’t let him die.”

“Your reasoning?”

“Even if he’s a murderer, even if he can’t be rehabilitated, it’s still human life.  No one, not even a criminal, deserves to die for something as pointless as that.”

There was a wave of static over the phone, as though L were – of all things – sighing in relief.  “Then those are your instructions, Casey Watson.  Thank you.  Once again, you have fulfilled my expectations.  You have a gentle heart, and it was for that reason alone that I chose you as my proxy.”

I smiled.  When I closed my eyes this time, it was not A or Quarter’s bodies I saw, but that little half-smile I’d seen so many times as a child.  It was like he was right there in front of me, and the last nine years hadn’t happened.  “Understood.  I can’t make my move until I’ve got some solid evidence, so this thing may go right down to the wire.  But I promise, I’ll get him no matter what.  So rest easy.”

“I shall do that.  I have complete faith in you, Casey Watson.”

The feeling was mutual.  It always had been.

-

As promised, Naomi returned around three in the afternoon, bearing canned soup and a box of teabags from the convenience store.  It was obvious from her face that she had news, but she insisted on making the tea and heating up the soup before saying anything.  She managed to contain herself until I drank about half the tea and forced down a couple mouthfuls of soup.

“We found the message.  Well, I say ‘we,’ but Ryuzaki did most of the work again…anyway, it was the glasses.”

“Glasses?”

“Ryuzaki pointed me toward the family’s photo album, and I realized that there wasn’t a single photo of Quarter Queen wearing glasses.  So I called her mom, and not only did Quarter not wear glasses unless she absolutely had to –”

“But those glasses aren’t even hers,” I finished.  Damn it, she was right.  In the two years I’d lived next door to them, I had only seen Quarter wear glasses once, when she lost her contacts at school.  Those frames had been neon purple; the glasses she’d been earing when I found her were horn-rimmed, gray, and altogether too big for her face.  Once again, I’d been too distracted to see the obvious truth.  “Right, so what’s the message.”

“Glass Street!”

“…Glass Street?”

“Yeah, where the third victim lived.”

“Is that…really it?”

“That’s all we need!” She leaned forward in her chair, quaking with excitement.  “We found it, Casey.  We found out how he’s choosing his victims.  It’s their names.”

“What, the fact that they have the same first and last initial? That doesn’t exactly narrow it down.  There must be hundreds of people like that in Los Angeles.”

“Not all pairs.  Just one – B.B.”

“B…”

Naomi explained.  The first and third victims both had B.B. as their initials.  Quarter Queen did not, but Naomi reasoned that since she was a child, her initials ought to be considered lowercase, b.b.  Unlike the other two, who had been found lying on their backs, Quarter was on her stomach, flipped upside down.  In which case, b.b. became q.q.  Furthermore, the dates on which the murders were committed, which up until now had all seemed arbitrary, also had to do with the letter B.  Or rather, the fact that if you split apart the pencil strokes that made the letter B, you would be left with 1 and 3, B.  Believe Bridesmaid was killed on July 31st, which was 1 and 3 flipped.  Quarter Queen was killed on August 4th – four was 1 plus 3, B.  Backyard Bottomslash was killed on August 13th, which was already B.  And the fourth murder was set to take place on August 22nd, six days from now.

“Whoa, hold up,” I interrupted, waving my hand in a _stop right there_ gesture.  “I get the other three dates, but how do you get B from 22?”

“Are you familiar with Japanese numbers, Casey?”

“Huh? Oh…y-yeah, a little…”

Naomi borrowed a pad and paper and drew the Japanese characters for 22, 二十二.  “It looks kind of like 2+2, right? So then the answer is four, and then you can just use the same logic for August 4th.  That works for July 22nd, the day the crossword puzzle reached the LAPD, as well.”

There was no migraine this time.  I didn’t feel faint or nauseous.  The answer came clearly and easily from my own brain.  “But Naomi,” I heard myself say from somewhere far away, “it sounds like you’re shaping the argument to fit the conclusion after the fact.  Why B?”

“Because I talked to L.  He said he knows who the killer is.  He said the killer –”

“– is B.”  My voice was calm and even.

Rue Ryuzaki was indeed a Wammy kid.  He was _the_ Wammy kid, first in line to succeed L now that A was dead.  The most capable deductive thinker in the House, and also the most insane. 

Beyond Birthday.


	15. 3.5: The Unshakable Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for 100 hits!
> 
> Death Note (c) 2003 Ohba Tsugumi and Obata Takeshi. Another Note: The Los Angeles BB Murder Cases (c) 2006 Nisio Isin. All rights reserved.

**Chapter 5: The Unshakable Truth**

Wammy’s House was not a social environment.  Not only did the L kids not talk to the normal kids, but they also avoided talking to each other as well.  They were the competition, obstacles to be overcome.  One could go so far to say that talking to them would be fraternizing with the enemy, and no one wanted that.  I was the same way.  There were a few people I could talk to, and a certain toddler had taken to following me around like a duckling, but L was my only real friend.  In three years at Wammy’s House, I’d said maybe nine sentences to B.

That might have been one reason I hadn’t known him when I saw him; another was that his disguise was too good.  He had fashioned himself as a tall, lanky, pasty man with wide, staring eyes.  The B I’d known was a chubby Latino kid who eyes were constantly watery and squinting, even behind glasses.  The two images were such total opposites that I couldn’t even begin to reconcile them.

However, the biggest reason it took me so long to recognize B was that, despite some odd habits, Ryuzaki seemed moderately sane.  Whereas B…well, it was complicated.  No one at the House could rightly be called sane, but B was especially off.  And I hadn’t forgotten the uptick in weirdness immediately after A’s death, and that comment about “the numbers going down” was especially odd.  Judging by that, and a few other comments, it seemed that he was suffering under some sort of delusion that he could predict when someone would die.  That was screwed up even by Wammy standards; compared to that, Rue Ryuzaki was downright normal.  Still, I never could have imagined he was capable of cold-blooded murder, just for the sake of one-upping his superior.

I watched and waited.  Like I’d said to L, I couldn’t apprehend B on a hunch.  If I went to the police now with my suspicions, I would have to explain Wammy’s House to them.  That was absolutely, one-hundred-percent out of the question.  I needed solid, idiot-proof evidence, which at the moment relied on me catching him in the act of committing the fourth “murder.” There was nothing I could do until August 22nd, so I waited.  At the third crime scene, I spoke only when spoken to, went through the motions of searching for the answer, and did only the bare minimum so as not to seem suspicious.  When I knew he wouldn’t notice, I watched Ryuzaki for clues as a hawk scans the forest floor for mice.  Now that I knew the truth, I didn’t understand how I could’ve possibly missed it before.  I was absolutely disgusted with myself.  Some genius I was.

Once again, Ryuzaki and Naomi solved the puzzle.  An offhand comment from Ryuzaki about cutting off a finger to steal a ring gave Naomi the idea that the killer had cut off Backyard Bottomslash’s arm to steal her watch – or rather, put watches in our minds.  The remaining three limbs –- head, left leg, and right arm, looked like the three hands of an analog clock.  From there, using the number of stuffed animals on each wall – two, five (which became three and six when counting the _wara ningyo_ ), nine, and twelve – we were able to orient the clock as 6:15:50.  Ryuzaki took it a step further and showed us that the message didn’t refer to time at all, but to the construction ID number of a condo complex in Pasadena.  A complex which housed two people with the initials B.B., living in rooms 404 and 1313.  Both were viable targets, and there was no way of telling which one the killer would seek out. 

Since there was one male and one female target, it was decided that we would put the two of them up for the day in a hotel, and that Naomi and Ryuzaki would take their places and wait for the killer.  Since both targets lived alone, Ryuzaki suggested that I stand guard outside the building and try to spot the killer in advance, or else intercept in case he managed to run away.  Of course, there would be no killer outside the condo complex, but he didn’t know I was aware of that, so I agreed.

Naomi and I spent the night of the 21st in the Pasadena Holiday Inn, two blocks from the condos. We didn’t say much – I was preparing myself mentally for the inevitable confrontation, and Naomi was glowering at her weapon.  As per FBI regulations, she had surrendered her gun upon suspension; upon learning that she was unarmed, Ryuzaki gave her a Strayer-Voight Infinity gun (for my part, I dug up my old Glock 22 from the safe in the back of my closet and had tucked it into the specially-made pocket on the inside of my jacket).  It was most likely the first time she had held a gun since the failed raid.  I couldn’t even imagine what must have been going through her head.

When the tension became too thick for me, I cleared my throat and walked over to stand behind her chair.  “Hey.” After a moment’s hesitation, I put my hand on her shoulder.  She flinched, but made no move to shrug it off.  “I’ve been meaning to tell you.  I read the file, and I think you did the right thing, not shooting that kid.”

Naomi’s laugh was bitter.  “Yeah, you and no one else.  Months of surveillance and planning, screwed up in five seconds.”

“Naomi –”

“I killed seven agents, Casey.”

“The cartel killed seven agents.  You saved a boy’s life.”

“He’s a criminal.”

“Criminals can change their ways.  They don’t have to make bad decisions forever.  That kid’s young; he can turn his life around.  And he wouldn’t have been able to do that if you’d shot him.”

The look on Naomi’s face told me she wasn’t convinced, but when I tried to let go of her shoulder, she reached up and covered my hand with hers, squeezing slightly.  It didn’t drop until long after I’d told her about Z, also thirteen years old when he ran from my gun.

Towards midnight, I excused myself and went down to the outdoor pool, deserted at this late hour on a weekday.  L answered my call after just one ring.  “L.”

“Watson.” I explained Ryuzaki’s plan.  “I’ve decided to go along with it for now.  Once Naomi is safely away, then I’ll make the arrest.”

“Good.  I probably do not need to say this, Casey Watson, but I advise that you do not take unnecessary risks.  This man has killed three people merely for amusement; he will not hesitate to kill a potential captor.”

“I know.  I’ll be careful.”

“I shall have backup available for you, but even in an emergency, it would take six minutes and forty seconds to reach the condo.  Only two of my agents will be within the building itself, and they will not act unless there is no other choice.”

“Why’s that?”

“Given the nature of their respective professions, they would prefer not to be involved in police affairs.”

“Professions? What, are they spies or something?”

“On the contrary, they are professional criminals.  Specifically, a thief and a con man.”

A thief and a con man.  A _con man_.

“Casey Watson? Is anything the matter?”

I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry.  It was over – no, it had never even begun.  My brother had been working for L the whole time.  L had known who I was right from the very beginning.

“Okay,” I said after a long time.  I took a deep breath and steeled myself.  The roaring in my ears had returned, but when I spoke again, my voice was steady.  “I think that’s enough now, L.”

“Enough? Of what?”

“Playing this game.  Lying to myself.  Pretending that I was capable of fooling you for even a fraction of a second.” In spite of everything, I was smiling, though a few tears leaked out.  “Thierry Morrello is your man, and he’s been feeding you information about me, right?”

He did not deny it.

“If you knew all this time, why didn’t you say anything?”

Once again, L was quiet for so long that I thought he had hung up.  When he finally said something, it was barely above a whisper.  “I did not think that was what you wanted.”

“I don’t know if it was or not.  But L…” I felt my smile morph into a scowl.  “I’m not going back to the House, you hear me? I’d rather die than go through that again.”

“It was never my intention to bring you back.”

That threw me for a loop.  “W-What?”

“I won’t pretend that you aren’t capable of succeeding me, nor that you would reach your full potential only under the program’s guidance.  However, you left because you genuinely feared for your life and mental health.  I refuse to allow you to come to harm, so if you do not wish to return, I will not force you.”

My mouth felt dry, and I swallowed with an effort.  “So then…what _was_ your intention? If you weren’t trying to prove who I was, or convince to go back, why involve me at all?”

“To test your abilities for myself, of course.  Many things can change in nine years, and I wanted to see the full scale of your mental facilities.  And if I was satisfied with your progress – and make no mistake, I certainly am – then I would, and will, properly offer you a position as my proxy in the field.”

“E-Excuse me?”

“I know you are compelled to hunt criminals; you consider it your responsibility to the world, as someone blessed with a brilliant mind.  We pursue justice as adversaries now, but imagine our success if we were to work as companions.  We can be far more together than we can be alone.”

“…You sound almost sentimental, L.  That’s not like you.”

“No.” Another wave of static like a sigh.  “I do believe quite fervently in everything I have just said, but perhaps I am not being entirely honest.  I can’t explain why with any sort of logical reasoning, but I enjoyed spending time with you.  The truth is, I would like to see you again.”

I was suddenly hyper-aware of my surroundings.  The oppressive heat of a California summer had finally been relieved by a faint breeze.  The water in the pool rippled and trickled unusually loudly, broken now and then by a splash from some unknown object.  The air smelled of chlorine and stale cigarettes.  Without much straining, I could hear shouting and laughing and lovemaking from the rooms above.  It really was a crappy hotel.

I was never, ever going to forget this moment.

“All right, L.  You’ve got yourself a partner.”

“Do you mean that?”

“Why else would I have said it?”

The silence dragged on for what seemed like hours.  Then I heard a soft click, followed by a voice.  A real voice, not a synthetic one, one that puberty had made soft and deep but still recognizable, that fell on my ears like a song, that made tears of nostalgia well in my eyes.  “Thank you.  I am so glad to hear you say that.  I look forward to working with you.” This last part was said in Japanese, my native tongue.

“Yeah.  Same to you, buddy.”

The weight on me was gone.  I was no longer hunted, ruled by the terror of pursuit.  I was once again – no, like I always had been – L’s ally and friend.

-

August 22nd, 6:10 PM.

All day, I had loitered around the building, changing from inside to outside and back again when I started drawing weird looks, waiting for a killer that wouldn’t come.  Naomi was in position, nine floors up and out of harm’s way.  I had seen no sign of my foster brother or the thief.  That was good; I wasn’t sure what I’d say to Morrello if I saw him.

The message at the third crime scene had pointed to the building ID number, but there was still a possibility that it could also be referring to time. 6:15:50 had come and gone, but since Backyard Bottomslash’s corpse had formed an analog rather than a digital clock, 18:15:50 was still in play.  When I had a half hour to go, I positioned myself just outside of room 404, Ryuzaki’s room, to wait for the probable cause that would justify my suspicions.

Now, with five minutes to go, I could hear it.  The steady pounding of a hammer driving a nail into a wall.  B was putting up the final _wara ningyo_.

I pulled my gun out of my jacket and held it at the ready.  The front door was locked, of course; I kicked it down with practiced ease.  _Like riding a bike_.  The door opened into a deserted living room, but a closed door stood off to the corner.  I crossed the room and kicked it down as well, almost without thought.

The sour reek of gasoline hit me like a hurricane, and I gagged.  The first thing I saw was the _wara ningyo_ , observing malevolently from the far wall.  Then my eyes dropped to the figure in the center of the room, who was tossing aside an empty fuel can.  Gasoline dripped freely from him, puddling on the floor and filling the room with a heady stench.  His makeup was running –- powder mixed with bronze skin in an odd coffee-creamer effect, and dark rivers of eye shadow flowed to his chin, reminiscent of a clown’s face paint.  There was a Zippo lighter in his right hand, cocked at the ready.  Strangulation, blunt force trauma, stabbing, and now fire – something different every time.  As madmen went, this one was pretty creative.

I pointed my gun at his heart, smirking to mask the pit in my gut.  “Aw, Beyond.  You’ve ruined your makeup.”

He gazed at me with that same blank, L-like stare, pretending he didn’t understand.  Then a grin spread over his face, manic and wild, like a beast baring its teeth.  On any face, such a grin would be terrifying; on L’s face, it nearly stopped my heart.

“Oh, did you like that?” he said.  His voice was high-pitched and mocking, no longer L’s calm monotone.  “I did that especially for you, you know.  Any new face would’ve been fine, really, but I couldn’t resist this one once I learned you were on the case!”

Enraged, I raised my aim to his head.  He clicked his tongue and waggled the finger of his empty hand, brandishing the lighter with the other.  “Ah, ah, ah! Put that away now, please, or my finger might just slip.  You wouldn’t look good with a tan, you know.” Cursing under my breath, I put the gun on the floor, kicked it away, and raised my hands in a gesture of surrender.  “That’s a good girl.  So, you have questions for me? Answering a few is the least I can do to reward you for figuring it out so quickly.  Honestly, C, I’m pretty impressed. Not bad for the bronze medalist.”

Of course I had questions, too many to count.  I started with the most pertinent.  “How did you know the person who owns that face was L?”

He tilted his head to the side, the angle unnatural and all the creepier for his demonic sneer.  “His name, of course.  Honestly, who names their kid after a letter? And I thought I had it rough.”

“And how did you know that?” No one in the House, except possibly for Mr. Wammy, knew L’s name.  It wasn’t written down anywhere, and it hadn’t been entered into the House’s secure database.  I only knew because he had told me himself the night before he left, as a token of our friendship. 

“The same way I knew those three had the initials I was looking for.  The same way I could tell who you were under that little makeover.  That’s a nice job your doctor did, by the way.  Your own mother wouldn’t recognize you.  If you had one, anyway.”

I clenched my teeth.  “ _How_?”

His eyes lifted to a point above my head, and his smile widened.  “I can see it, floating just over your head.  Your real name.  Not just that, either – I can see the day you’re gonna die.”

I gaped at him.  “You’re lying.  That’s not possible.”

“No?” He lifted his chin and looked smug.  “Is that what you think, _Hasegawa Chie_?”

I froze, heart pounding painfully.  All records of my name had been destroyed when I entered the House.  I had erased my entry from the database myself.  There was no possible way he could have known that.  Unless the unthinkable really was true…

“When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be truth,” B recited.  “That’s what you were always parroting from that dreadful book, right? So follow your own advice.” He cackled, a harsh, grating sound that made me shudder.

Realizing that I was holding my breath, I relieved my burning lungs.  “Okay, Beyond.  I believe you.  That’s how you knew A would die that day, and how you knew which people to kill.”

He wagged his finger again.  “So close! But you’re only half right.  I haven’t killed anyone.”

In spite of myself, I snorted.  “So Quarter Queen plucked out her own eyes? Backyard Bottomslash accidentally cut off her own limbs?”

“Oh, no, I did all that.  But even if I hadn’t, those people were fated to die on those exact days.  It just would’ve happened differently without me there.  So, technically, I didn’t take anyone’s life – they wouldn’t have been using them anyway!” He cackled again.

I could feel bile rising in my throat, and I leaned forward toward the gun I tossed aside.  “You’re disgusting.”

“Nope, I’m pragmatic.  Just like how they taught us.” His smile faded, and his head tilted again.  “So why haven’t you asked me the important question? I gave you this special chance and everything.”

“What’s the important question?”

His grin was now so wide I was surprised his cheeks didn’t split apart like orange slices.  “ _Why_ am I doing this?”

The gun was equal distance between us both, about two feet.  If I made a dive for it, I might be able to shoot from the floor before he could react.  It would have to be immediate, though; I had to wait till he was distracted.  “I already know why you did it,” I said, hoping to provoke him.  “You told me.  You want to be the best with that brain of yours, and that means beating L.  Also you’re a goddamn psycho, but mostly the first bit.”

He didn’t argue the latter point.  “I _am_ the best.  And this case will prove it.  No matter what L may suspect, he still needs hard evidence, and he can’t get that if I’m dead.  I’ll never be caught, and this case will never be solved.”

This time, my smile was confident.  “Oh yeah? You realize you’re confessing in front of a witness, right? Not only does L already know every single detail about what you’ve done, but my testimony will close the case.”

“Maybe.  If there’s no reasonable doubt about your mental state at the time of the confession.  If you can even make the confession at all.”

I caught on just half a second too late.  We dove for the gun simultaneously.  My fingers grazed cold metal, but there was already a thick coat of gasoline covering it, and it slipped out of my hand.  The same with B; he wriggled out of my grasp like a fish, too slippery to get a hold of.  Before I knew it, he had pinned me to the floor, straddling my hips with the gun jammed against my abdomen.

He leaned in just inches from my face, leering and giggling.  “Checkmate, Hasegawa Chie.”

_Bang._

B climbed off me and got to his feet.  I lifted my head and stared in shock at the blood blossoming through my shirt.  There was no pain yet, only the prickling numbness of shock.

“Sorry about that,” B was saying.  His voice sounded muffled and very far away.  “It’s not like I dislike you.  Look on the bright side – you’ve still got some time left.  Not much, mind you, but some.  More than Misora, anyway.  At most, that shot will put you in a coma.”

“B,” I choked out.  The pain was coming now, a burning, broiling force that threatened to drag me under with each heartbeat.  “What…they did to…us…isn’t worth…dying for.”

A sigh.  “I told you, didn’t I? If I can’t be the best, then there’s no point.  Not to my brain, not to my eyes, not to me.” Something silver flashed in the dark.  “Goodbye, C.  Hope that gasoline on your arms doesn’t catch fire.”

_Click._

My vision exploded into orange and red.  The smell of cooking meat curdled my wounded stomach, and screams pierced through straight to my core.  I couldn’t tell if they were B’s or mine.  _This is Hell.  This is what Hell is like._

It could’ve lasted for several seconds or several hours, but at last the flames disappeared, smothered in white.  Snow – no, foam.  Someone was using a fire extinguisher.  Someone had come to help.

The pain was excruciating by now, and the darkness was yanking at me.  I gasped for breath, and a face swam into view.  Naomi’s face.

“Hang in there, Casey.  The ambulance is coming.  Stay with me for a little while longer, okay?”

_No, no, not me, don’t give it to me, I’m not important, I’m not worth it._

“B,” I said again, my voice a hiss of air.  “B…needs to…live…”

“I know.  I know everything, Casey.  Don’t worry, I won’t let him win, I promise.”

I sighed in relief and fell into the dark.


	16. 3.6: The Last Train

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death Note (c) 2003 Ohba Tsugumi and Obata Takeshi. Another Note: The Los Angeles BB Murder Cases (c) 2006 Nisio Isin. All rights reserved.

**Chapter 6: The Last Train**

There was something on my head.  A light pressure gently moving across my skull, stroking my scalp and twirling my hair.  I caught the faint whiff of strawberries – the real thing, not the sickly sweet artificial flavoring.  He always smelled like strawberries, no matter what he was eating.

I concentrated as hard as I could on the pressure and the scent.  A small pinprick of light cut through the darkness of my vision.  I stared into it, watched it grow wider and wider until it surrounded me.  I blinked, and the light took shape: the flickering fluorescence of an old light bulb.  The strawberry smell faded, replaced by the sterile, cloying scent of disinfectant.  I took a deep breath to try and reclaim the smell, and was rewarded with a sharp stab of pain from chest to hips.

“Easy, _ma petite_. Don’t push yourself.”

The pressure was a hand, stroking my hair as it did when I was a teenager.  It belonged not to L, but to a handsome bleached-blond man, with mussed-up designer clothes and with week-old stubble coating his chin.  My foster brother and fellow Coil, Thierry Morrello.  He looked like he hadn’t slept in a week, a far cry from his usual dapper self.  But he was supposed to be in France.  Why was he here? I wanted to ask where we were, but I only managed to get “where” off my dry, swollen tongue before another stab of pain crippled me.

“The hospital, _petite_.  Huntingdon Memorial in Pasadena.”

That’s right.  B had shot me.  It was all coming back now.  Was he still alive? Was Naomi okay? Had anyone gotten in touch with L?

But right now I had other things to think about.  Thierry Morrello was right in front of me, having the gall to look concerned about my well-being.  My conversation with L at the hotel was coming back, too, as was the rage.  “How…long…?” I managed to say.

Morrello frowned, not understanding.  “How long have you been out? This makes eight days.  It was touch-and-go for a while there, but I knew you’d pull through.  You’ve always been such a strong girl.  Honestly, as if I needed another reason to hate guns –”

“ _No_.” I lifted a trembling hand – my limbs felt full of lead rather than blood – and made an L shape with my thumb and index finger.  “How.  Long.”

“Oh.  That.” He sighed and started to explain himself.  A week after he had smuggled me out of England, L had contacted him, claiming to have found enough evidence of the cons to put Morello away for life.  However, L would agree to bury the evidence on two conditions: if Morello did some work for him every once in a while, and if he would send status reports about me to L.  Those included photographs (pre and post-op), my location, and general reports on my mental and emotional state.  Naturally, Morrello had agreed to the terms, and had thereafter sent reports to L faithfully every week of the six years I had lived with him.  Even now, whenever he got off the phone with me, he would immediately call L and give his general impressions of how I was doing.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he chastised once finished, looking hurt.  “It was that or jail.  I have a family to think about, you know.”

The darkness was threatening to drag me under again, and I struggled to stay above water.  “You motherfucker.  I…trusted you…”

As I sank, I heard a derisive chuckle.  “I’m a con artist.  What did you expect?”

-

When I woke up next, Naomi had taken Morrello’s place at my bedside, looking pale and haggard.  As soon as she realized I was up, she grabbed my hand and squeezed so hard that I thought she would crush it.  There was a gun on her holster again, FBI standard issue.  The corner of her badge was sticking out of her pocket.

She wanted to let me rest, but I insisted she bring me up to speed.  Reluctantly, she explained that while in room 1313, she had realized something hadn’t added up.  Before splitting up, Ryuzaki had expressed no concern over well-being, because she was skilled in capoeira.  She had used the Brazilian martial art against her attacker on the day we investigated the second crime scene; only the killer would have known she could use it.  From there, she realized what I had about the locked door and _wara ningyo_.  She took off, reaching room 404 one minute after Ryuzaki had set himself on fire.

“Right now, he’s in police custody in the ICU,” she said, expression hardening at the thought of him.  “Critical, but stable.  The doctors are optimistic.”

A wave of relief washed over me.  “Thank God…” She looked puzzled at my reaction, and I explained that B’s goal the whole time was to create a case L couldn’t solve.  Since he was still alive, the possibility existed that he would one day recover enough to stand trial.  L had won again.

“Why go so far, though?” Naomi wondered.  “Why kill yourself, and three others, just to beat L?”

I hesitated.  My room was private, but there was a security camera pointing inside from out in the hall.  As I glanced at it, the camera whirred, and the little red light winked out.  Permission granted.

“Naomi, what I’m about to tell you never leaves this room, understand? You take it to your grave.” She looked startled, but nodded immediately.  I paused, not sure where to begin, but decided in the end to start at the very beginning.

“The truth is, L’s not just one person.  Well, he is, but he’s also an organization.  See, even though he’s only been taking cases for a little over a decade, he’s already become something the world can’t live without.  So the man who found him decided to make a copy, in case something ever happened to him.”

“A copy?”

“Yeah.  There’s this orphanage in the UK that takes in super-smart kids and trains them to be the next L.  B was one of those kids – so was I.

“You gotta understand, Naomi.  They were trying to wipe out who we all were, force us into being another person.  When solving cases, we had to make the right decision every single time, just the way that L did; if we didn’t, people would die, or innocents would go to jail.  I know it’s dramatic, but trust me, it’s not an exaggeration to say the fate of the world hung in the balance.  That kind of pressure would be hell on an adult, but on a little kid…” I shuddered, remembering.  “The boy first in line to succeed L killed himself.  B was second in line; you saw what happened to him.  I was third in line – I ran away.  I changed my name and got plastic surgery so that they’d never find me.  But L…I couldn’t fool him.  That’s why he put me on this case, because he knew I was here.”

She stared at me with some unreadable expression in her eyes – horror? Sympathy? Disgust? To whom was it directed.  I ducked my head in a bow so that I wouldn’t have to look at it.  “I’m sorry, Naomi.  You never should’ve gotten involved with this.  This was a House affair, between me, L, and B.  I think…I think the only reason L dragged you into this was as a last resort if I said no.”

Naomi didn’t answer – not with words, anyway.  I felt the light pressure of her hand first rest on, then squeeze my shoulder.  I looked up to see her eyes filled with tears, then looked down again to hide my own.  We stayed like that a long time.

-

They kept me in the hospital another week.  As it turned out, there had been complications with the surgery.  The bullet had miraculously missed everything vital, but it had pierced both uterus and left ovary, effectively sterilizing me. Even with additional surgery, there was less than a five percent chance that I could conceive. For lack of a better term – and which made Morrello laugh till he cried – my eggs were scrambled.   I’d never thought myself capable of motherhood, never learned how to raise a child from my own mother before she died.  Despite that, when they told me, a sort of hollow chill crept over me that lessened, but did not leave, with time.  Morrello and I bonded over a good cry.

Outside, the world span on.  Beyond Birthday was projected to survive and would appear in court as soon as he was able, though none of us had any doubt that he would be declared mentally unfit to stand trial.  He had serious burns on ninety percent of his body and would live in excruciating pain till the day he died, but it seemed as though that day wouldn’t come for a while yet.  In spite of everything he had done, as much as I valued human life, I pitied him.  He was doomed to a pointless, stagnant existence, haunted by his failure.  Naomi, meanwhile, returned to active duty, having been awarded full credit for catching the killer.  I did not begrudge her this; her reputation needed all the help it could get, and it would not do for the FBI to admit that they had allowed an untrained receptionist into the field only for her to be shot and sterilized.

On the last night before my discharge, I was alone.  Naomi had gone back to Los Angeles for work, and I had insisted that Morrello go back to his hotel and shower.  He had hardly left my side, and I grudgingly appreciated it.  The pain of the bullet wound had faded to a dull throb that hurt only when I strained myself.  Outwardly, I’d be back to normal before too long; inwardly, in every sense of the word, was another matter.

I was staring up in the ceiling, reflecting broodingly over the past few weeks, when a young nurse walked in.  After glancing around for my brother (he had understandably become a favorite among the lonely, workaholic staff), she turned to me with a disappointed air.  “Good, you’re still up.  Someone’s here to see you.”

I raised an eyebrow.  It was almost nine o’ clock, and visiting hours had long since ended.

“Your grandfather,” she clarified.  “Family can get in anytime.  And he’s so sweet, I just couldn’t refuse.”

“My…my grandfather?” Even if either of my grandfathers were still alive, there was no way they’d be able to track me down, so who –?

Oh.  _That_ grandfather.

The nurse stepped out of the room and closed the door to give us privacy.  The little old Englishman removed his bowler hat, hung it on a peg, and took Morrello’s empty seat.  He had a few more lines of care in his face, a few more liver spots on his hands, and several shades worth of whiter hair since I last saw him, but he was essentially unchanged.

I hung my head, nine years old and in trouble for snooping again.  “Hi, Mr. Wammy.”

He had never been the type to shout, but I expected a lecture, or at least disappointment.  Instead, he scooted his chair closer to my bed and took my hand in both of his.  Startled, I looked up to see tears in his eyes.  “I’m sorry, Chie,” he said in a shaky voice.  “I’m so sorry I caused this to happen to you.” He looked shrunken and defeated, like a withered flower.

I shook my head so rapidly I made myself dizzy.  “No, don’t.  Don’t.  I forgive you.” And, amazingly, I did.  Mr. Wammy was, first and foremost, an inventor – his brain was wired to want to ensure something that works keeps on working.  L was someone that had to exist in this world; therefore, the House had to exist.  Like any new system, there were bugs in its operation that unfortunately coincided with my time there.  I blamed my own poor fortune, but I couldn’t blame the man who had given me a home and loved me like a daughter.  So, in spite of everything, I reached over and hugged him, letting him stroke my hair and dry my tears with his handkerchief. 

When we’d both composed ourselves, Mr. Wammy dabbing at his own eyes with a spare handkerchief, he passed L’s regards and hopes for a speedy convalescence. “I suggested he say this in person, but he was quite adamant in his refusal.”

I glanced toward the camera in the hall.  If this case had taught me anything, it was that L merely showing his face was dangerous.  I still didn’t quite understand B’s method, but if he could find out L’s name, others could, too.

Mr. Wammy followed my gaze.  “That’s certainly part of it, but it seems there’s more to it than that.  L was quite vexed by your injury.  He hasn’t said as much in so many words, but I believe he blames himself.”

“He shouldn’t,” I said immediately.  “He’s not the one that pulled the trigger.”

“Quite so, but he has difficulty seeing it that way.  He believes he is to blame for putting you in harm’s way in the first place.” He peered at me over the rim of his spectacles.  “He also asked me to tell you that he understands if you would like to withdraw your pledge to work with him.  The danger will only increase from this point onward.”

I smiled at him, what felt like my first true smile since this whole business began.  “I know, but that doesn’t matter to me.  L’s right – if there’s something I can do to help, I can’t just sit by and do nothing.  I have a responsibility to use this brain to help people.  Otherwise, there’s no point to having it.” My smile lessened, hearing B’s echo.  _You were misguided, Beyond.  There’s so much more you could’ve done to feel fulfilled, rather than trying to burn the world down._

Mr. Wammy seemed to misinterpret my reaction.  “Are you quite certain? At L’s side, a normal life is impossible.”

Another echo returned, making me smile.  “With this brain, a normal life is unattainable.  It always has been; I was just fooling myself into thinking otherwise.  I still don’t have what it takes to succeed L, and I have no desire to surpass him.  But if I can stand by his side…if I can use my gifts to support him, while still being me…honestly, I can’t think of anything I’d rather do.”

For the first time since entering, Mr. Wammy smiled.  “He will be so happy to hear that.  As his guardian, I must thank you as well.” He clumsily bowed his head, making me giggle, then wince at the twinge in my gut.  “Let us be a family again.”

I bowed back.  “You got it. Please take care of me from now on, too.”

“It will be my pleasure.”

-

Someone had paid my hospital bill, as well as deposited a sizeable compensation for my services in my bank account.  My apartment was packed up and returned to my landlord. The paperwork with the college had been filed.  All that was left to do was hand in my notice at the office.

The official story was that I was going back east to take care of a relative (technically, this was not a lie).  I’d told Naomi the real story in my hospital room.  “I know you don’t approve of him,” I’d said, “but this could be really good for me.  Him, too.”

To my surprise, Naomi nodded. “I get it.  And you know, I’m starting to see what you meant about him being a good man.” She explained that the on the phone with L in room 1313, he’d told her that the three of us had a power that was stronger than B.  She thought he meant justice; he’d really meant kindness.  “I underestimated him.  He really does care.”

“Wow, Naomi Misora changing her opinion of someone? Hell hath frozen over!”

“Very funny.” We shared a laugh.

What could do women who’d been through what we had say to each other? How could I possibly thank her for what she had done for me?  Words failed me, so I stuck out my hand. 

She took it, both solemn and smiling.  “Take care of yourself, Casey.”

“Same to you, Naomi.  Don’t shoot anything I wouldn’t shoot.”

As the one who knew the truth, the only outsider to whom I’d told my story, Naomi was my link to this life I’d fashioned.  Even though I was casting it aside, Naomi’s friendship meant I wasn’t throwing it away entirely, that I still had a place to go back to.  Now, as I was leaving the FBI’s LA office for the last time, I didn’t feel nameless the way I had been the other two times I’d started over.  A part of me would always be Casey Watson, and in tribute, I looked back at the building that had been her world.

As a result, I slammed into another pedestrian, knocking him to the ground.

“Ouch!” I yelped, clutching my tender middle at the point of impact.  “Ah, shit…hey, buddy, are you okay? I’m sorry about –”

I paused.  I got a good look at him.  Messy black hair. Sickly pale skin.  Dark rings under wide eyes.  A long-sleeved white shirt and faded jeans.  Dirty Converse and no socks.  He got to his feet, but kept his back bent, so that he had to crane his neck upward to look me in the eye.  One hand was raised to his face, and he was playing with his lower lip.

He was real this time. 

“Hello, Chie,” he said in a flat, soft voice.  The same voice I’d heard on the phone at the hotel.

I gaped at him.  “H…Hi.”

“You seem to have gained some of your strength back,” he went on.  “Enough to gain good momentum, anyway.”

“Huh? O-Oh, right…sorry…”

“It’s quite all right.”

I looked him up and down once again, and a shaky chuckle escaped my lips.  “You seriously haven’t changed a bit, have you?”

“Neither have you.”

“Is that supposed to be a joke?”

“Not at all.” He tugged on his lip.  “Your face is different, but you smile the same way.”

Was I smiling? I hadn’t noticed.

“I missed you,” I blurted out, feeling a blush creep over my face.

His eyes widened fractionally.  “Oh, is that so? I see.” He looked up and off to the side, chewing on his thumbnail with an air of concentration.  After a minute, he nodded to himself and turned back to me.  “I don’t have a lot of experience with such things, but since I thought of you every day since we parted ways, I suppose it’s safe to say that I missed you as well – oof.”

I had thrown my arms around him and pulled him close to me.  His whole body had tensed up, and he was so skinny that it felt like he would break in half if I squeezed too hard, but I wasn’t deterred.

“Sorry,” I said after a moment, voice muffled by the fabric of L’s shirt.  “I know you hate being touched.”  I still didn’t let go.

After another moment, his body relaxed.  “Since we’re friends, I suppose I don’t mind.  As long as you don’t make a habit of it.” He shifted, and I felt the light kiss of his fingerprints on my back, returning my embrace.

-

END OF NOTE 3


	17. 4.1: Unmasked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death Note (c) 2003 Ohba Tsugumi and Obata Takeshi. Another Note: The Los Angeles BB Murder Cases (c) 2006 Nisio Isin. All rights reserved.

**Note 4: Bricks Without Clay**

-

**Chapter 1: Unmasked**

-December 4th, 2003-

-HM Prison Wakefield, West Yorkshire-

Lind L. Tailor had worn a mask during the Detective War, but even without a point of comparison, I could tell that prison hadn’t agreed with him.  His skin was sallow, his hair was wilted and dull, and his jumpsuit hung off of him like a limp flag.  There was a blank, haunted look in his eyes, no doubt due to shot nerves from so much time on death row.  I would’ve pitied him if I didn’t remember his crimes so keenly; instead, I noted his change of appearance with some approval, bearing in mind what he was about to do.  If L ever stood up straight or got more than an hour’s sleep a week, the resemblance would be uncanny.

“Why don’t you take a coffee break, Officer?” I said to the guard.  “We’ll be fine on our own.” The guard raised an eyebrow, but did as asked.  After all, Tailor’s hands were cuffed to the handle on the table, so there wasn’t much he could do to me.

We regarded each other across the table for a moment.  Tailor attempted a sneer, but it came out like more of a shaky grimace.  “Detective Goody Two-Shoes.  Here to see me off, or are you sticking in the needle yourself?”

My smile was cool.  “Your sentence was, what, almost three years now? You must be getting pretty sick of waiting.”

“Oh, no, I’m loving it.  You meet some real interesting people on death row.  And don’t even get me started on the food.”

“Sounds like you’re enjoying yourself.  Maybe I won’t give you my offer after all.”

The sarcastic smile fell away.  “What offer?”

I leaned across the table, smug in my complete control.  “How’d you like to breathe some free air before you go?”

He stared at me, then glanced at the door through which the guard had just left, as though expecting him to jump out and cry “April Fool’s.” When the door remained closed, he leaned in closer and lowered his voice.  “Is this a joke?”

“Nope, no joke.  This offer comes straight from L himself.  He can’t remit your sentence, but he can make what time you have left more comfortable for you.  Better accommodations, better food, and so on.”

He pretended to think about it, but there was still an eager shine in his dead eyes.  “Go on.”

“Have you noticed any of your fellow inmates dying of heart attacks in the past week?”

“Huh? Yeah, my cell mate snuffed it three days ago, and some other bloke the day before that.  What of it?”

I explained that scores more criminals on the outside had died in the past seven days, too many to be considered coincidental.  L was treating them as murder cases and was currently conducting an investigation into the killer, whom the Japanese Internet had dubbed “Kira.”  However, with no evidence at the crime scenes or any clues as to the killer’s identity, L’s only option was to provoke the killer into revealing himself.

“That’s where you come in.  We’re going to have you say that you’re L, and that you’re going to do whatever it takes to catch and execute this Kira person.  We’ll put you on live TV, one broadcast network at a time, all over the world.  If L’s theory checks out, Kira’s going to respond directly to the broadcast, and we’ll figure out where he is based on that.”

Tailor had kept his head down, thinking intensely, throughout my speech, but now he glanced up.  “Respond directly? Meaning what?”

I hadn’t expected him to catch on so quickly.  There was no way to avoid telling him, so I took the plunge.  “Meaning you might be murdered.”

Tailor gaped at me, then shook his head so quickly that it blurred.  “Nuh-uh.  No way.  Find someone else to stick on your fishing hook.”

“We don’t have anyone else.  The killer won’t find any record of your criminal history or arrest online; you’re the only criminal like that L can get in contact with.  It’s you or no one.”

“Then I guess it’s no one.” He sat back and folded his arms over his chest, completely closed off.

Normally, I would’ve dropped it right there.  Criminal or no criminal, death row or no death row, I had misgivings about using a human life as live bait.  If necessary, I could’ve taken my time and gently ease Tailor into coming around, or else thought of another plan entirely.  This time, however, my nerves were stretched thin.  L and Mr. Wammy had split up, L making the necessary preparations in Tokyo, Mr. Wammy addressing the Interpol summit in Lyon.  The thought of L on his own made me anxious.  Despite the fact that he was a grown man, he had all the self-sufficiency of a five-year-old.  I wanted to wrap this up and get back to him before he accidentally choked on his sweets or tripped over his laptop cord or something.

“Look,” I growled, trying to keep my temper in check.  “You have two options here.  Number one, I walk out that door, and you will _definitely_ be executed at six PM tomorrow as scheduled.  Number two, we walk out together, you get to breathe fresh air, eat real food, have a hot shower, sleep in a real bed, and you _probably_ , but not _definitely_ will die.  You end up in the same place either way, but if you do what I ask, you might have a longer, better life than you would otherwise.” I stood up.  “You have until I walk out that door to decide.  And just so you know, I don’t give a shit what you choose.  X and Y get their justice either way.”

I turned and headed for the door.  There were ten steps between me and the exit.  Tailor needed only two to decide.

-

Twenty-four hours later, we were in the NHK studio which L had sequestered for us.  The crew buzzed about, prepping for the broadcast only a few minutes away.  Tailor was seated behind a desk and before a green screen, which would show the Interpol headquarters in Lyon once the broadcast started.  His hair had been washed and brushed, and we’d provided him with a new suit.  He cleaned up rather well; he looked authoritative and professional, like those in the know would expect L to be (of course, only I knew that he looked the literal opposite).  I was in the control room, running over the prepared statement one last time.  This was our first run, and we would be on the air in Kanto, the most populous region of Japan.

I felt my phone buzz in my pocket, so I fished it out and put it to my ear.  “Morrello.” I had taken my old Detective War alias out of retirement, since that was the name by which Tailor had known me.

“This is L,” a non-synthetic voice answered. “Is everything in place?”

“Yup, we’re about a minute out.”

“Good.  How much can you see from your vantage point?”

“Anywhere a camera’s pointing.  Why, you don’t think the guy could be in the studio, do you? Because that would be impossible, seeing as you, me, and Tailor are the only ones who know what’s going on here.”

“It is also impossible to murder over a hundred criminals all over the world by means of a heart attack, and yet here we are,” L countered.  “Please keep an eye out for any suspicious activity, and intercept anyone who tries to run.  Oh, and come to think of it, do you have a TV with live feed of the network?”

I glanced around.  “Yeah, there’s one.  I can hardly watch the broadcast and the room at the same time, though.”

“Is that so? Well, you ought to give it a try, since you’ll see quite the show on the live feed.  Perhaps Near can give you some lessons in peripheral cognition the next time we’re in England.”

I opened my mouth to deliver a scathing retort, but the techies were gesturing for me to hang up – we were live.  I said a hasty good-bye, hung up, and turned my attention to the screens.  Tailor was sitting up straight with a stern frown on his face, looking directly into the camera and ignoring the teleprompter – he had memorized the prepared statement on the plane trip from Wakefield.

“My name is Lind L. Tailor,” he began, “otherwise known as L.  I am the only person able to mobilize the police forces of the entire world.”

I nodded in approval.  Tailor was a good actor; he didn’t sound nervous or wooden at all.  He spoke in English, with an interpreter off-screen translating almost simultaneously.  A quick glance at the screens told me that the green screen was working – no one would ever realize that we weren’t in France.  According to the babbling techies, the ratings had already spiked ten percent and were climbing by the second.  _So far, so good.  Let’s hope someone got the word out to Kira._

Tailor continued the statement, proclaiming his intent to find, capture, and execute the man known to the public as Kira.  He went on to insist that despite understanding the reasoning behind killing criminals, the killer himself was not only misguided, but downright evil.  At this, Tailor added a taunting smirk for good measure.  _That got your attention, huh, Kira? So what will you do now?_

Things went normally for about another minute, but three-quarters of the way through the statement, Tailor suddenly cried out in pain.  He clutched his chest, spasmed, and collapsed face-first onto the desk.  He didn’t move.

We all stared at him, equally still and stunned into silence.  The cameras were still rolling, none of the crew having the presence of mind to cut away.  Two people managed to drag Tailor off-screen, out of my line of sight.  I heard someone call for an ambulance, but I knew it would come too late; even this far away, I could tell Tailor was dead.  I didn’t feel vindication for X and Y, whatever I had said.  Partially, I felt inadequate that someone had been murdered right in front of me and I had not been able to do anything about it.  Mostly, I was stupefied that there had been a murder at all – by heart attack, with no direct contact, just by seeing him on TV.  Part of me hadn’t really thought that this Kira existed, despite the lack of any other logical explanation; now I had no choice but to believe.  However improbable, it was truth.

It took me a few seconds to realize that I wasn’t just thinking how shocked I was – I could hear it out loud, too.  But it wasn’t me talking.

“I can’t believe this…I wanted to test it just in case, but I never thought it could actually be true…Kira, it seems you can kill without needing to be there in person!”

I turned toward the live feed.  Sure enough, the studio feed was gone, replaced by an all-too-familiar calligraphic L.  He must have hacked into the signal and was now broadcasting live across Kanto.  Behind the synthesizer, he sounded just as shocked as the rest of us, and that terrified me more than anything.  I had never once heard L speak in anything more than a blank monotone.  If Kira had rattled him that badly, then the situation was much worse than I’d thought.

To my relief, though, L calmed down as he continued his direct address.  He explained Lind L. Tailor’s true identity, noting that it would have been impossible for Kira to discover that he was a criminal.  I was just starting to feel relaxed, even a little triumphant, when L challenged Kira to try again, goading and mocking in an attempt to make Kira kill him.  This was followed by a silence so long that it felt as though time had frozen, and I would be stuck in this studio for an eternity, staring up at a low-quality TV screen and waiting for someone to speak.

In reality, it lasted only ten seconds.  “So, it seems you can’t kill me after all.”

I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding and sank into a nearby chair, suddenly light-headed.  _Damn you for a reckless bastard, L Lawliet_.  My heart was pounding as fast as if I’d just run a marathon, and so loudly that I barely heard L, glorying in his victory, tell Kira that the broadcast wasn’t worldwide after all, and that he knew Kira’s location.  It was long after the broadcast ended and the husk that had once been Lind L. Tailor had been wheeled out by the coroner’s that I finally felt I could breathe again.

-

“You dumbass!” I snarled by way of greeting, slamming the hotel door behind me.  “What the hell was that?”

L, perched on the sofa, looked up from the laptop set before him on the cushion.  “Hello, Chie.  What do you mean?”

I advanced toward him, shaking with rage.  “What do you mean, what do I mean? Why were you so adamant about having Kira kill you?”

He cocked his head to the side, having the nerve to look confused.  “It was the only way to test my hypothesis about the conditions by which Kira kills, and it happened to be a resounding success.  I’d have thought making progress in the investigation would please you.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, what would’ve happened if it _wasn’t_ a success? What would you have done if you really were killed?”

“I wouldn’t have done anything.  I’d be dead.”

I rolled my eyes.  “Don’t get cute.”  Having reached the sofa, I picked up the laptop, placed it on the coffee table, and plopped down in its place, the force causing L to bounce slightly in his own seat.  “I’m serious, L. That was reckless.  There was no way of knowing if you’d actually survive that, and if you ended up dying, then I –”

“You would have carried on and solved the case in my place,” L interrupted.  “As is your duty as my partner, and as my heir.”  He scooted around to face the coffee table and grabbed a plate of strawberry shortcake, holding the plate flat in one hand and gripping the fork between index finger and thumb.

“I thought I asked you never to mention Wammy’s House or the succession to me again.”

“You did, and I didn’t.  Your brain made the natural leap on its own.”

“Fine.  Then as long as we’re talking about it, don’t forget that I’m three whole steps behind you.  If you couldn’t catch this bastard, what makes you think I’d be able to?”

“You’d be alive, for one thing.”  He shoveled some cake in his mouth and carried on talking, voice muffled by the obstacle.  “For another, you possess an incredible intellect and well-developed reasoning skills, despite your tendency to discredit them.  I have every confidence that you would be capable of succeeding where I failed, given the proper information.”  He looked over at me, still chewing.  “And technically, you are only one space away.  A and B are both quite unable to fulfill their roles, and Mello and Near are as of yet too inexperienced.”

I sighed.  I could never get anywhere arguing with L; between all the verbal jousting and conversational loopholes, it was like a newly-graduated public defender in court with the attorney general.  Electing to keep what little dignity remained, I said, “Fine, you win.  But I’m taking your strawberry as restitution for emotional distress.”  I reached for the plate.

L snatched the plate out of my reach, stretching his arm out and away as far as it could go.  There was an intense look in his eye, and his expression had marginally hardened.  “I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Tough.” I leaned over, nearly falling in what remained of his lap in the process, but L merely lifted his arm, keeping the plate out of my grasp.  “C’mon, give it.” 

“No.”

I reached up, and he pulled the plate away again, pointing the fork threateningly at me with his free hand.  “Come _on_.”

“ _No_.”

We stared each other down for a minute.  Knowing that my ego couldn’t take much more L-based humiliation, I decided discretion was the better part of valor and sat back up.  “Okay, whatever.  So what was this hypothesis you wanted to test badly enough to risk your life?”

He sat frozen for another moment, squinting at me in suspicion, but at last returned to a “normal” seating position, holding the plate in front of him once more.  “Why don’t you tell me? I’m sure you could figure it out with a little thought.”

I rolled my eyes again, but obediently went over it the incident again in my mind, staring up at the rotating ceiling fan.  “Okay…so you didn’t die, but Lind L. Tailor did.”

“So it would seem.”  He took another bite of cake.

“The reason for that…it could be a matter of distance, but the studio’s not too far away from the hotel…because you’re not a criminal? No, how could he have known that? And it’s not like you’ve never done anything illegal…”

“I have never done anything that wasn’t required of me for justice’s sake.”

I ignored him.  “So the only difference between your broadcast and Tailor’s…” The penny dropped, and I could’ve slapped myself at how obvious it was.  “He showed his face, and you didn’t!”

He bobbed his head in a nod.  “Precisely.  I believe that in order for Kira to kill someone, he must know the face of his intended victim.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I scoffed. 

“No more ridiculous than inducing a heart attack without being in the room.”

“Point taken.  So how – thank _you_!” Taking advantage of his focus on me, I managed to swipe the uneaten strawberry off the plate and pop it in my mouth before L could react.

His eyes narrowed.  “It appears I’ve lost this game.”

“No, it appears you’ve lost this game _again_.”  I swallowed the treat, reveling in the sweet taste and the sweeter victory.  “So how exactly are we supposed to catch this guy? If he doesn’t need direct contact, then it’ll be impossible to find physical evidence.”

He glowered at me, still sore.  “For now, we should continue to cooperate with the Japanese police.  The Detective-Superintendent of the NPA pledged his assistance to me at the Interpol summit, so we ought to take advantage of that.  Even the smallest bit of information they uncover could hold a vital clue.”

“Got it.  Then can I make a suggestion?”

“What is it?”

“Instead of staying here with you, how about I go to the police taskforce headquarters and work with them directly?”

He tilted his head again.  “That seems unnecessary to me, and it would put you in undue danger.”

I shook my head.  “No more danger than on any other assignment – maybe less, even, if I’m surrounded by the best police officers in the country.  And I think it’s quite necessary.  I like you, L, and there’s no one I trust more to have my back –”

“Thank you.  The feeling is mutual, though I wish I could eat my strawberries in peace.”

I smirked at him. “But it’ll be different with a group of strangers.  They don’t know or trust you, and since you’ll only be talking to them from a safe distance through a computer screen, you won’t be able to change that fact.  Whereas if I’m there, they can put a face to a name – well, a letter, anyway.  And by working with them directly, by following their lead and making it seem like they’re in charge, they’ll trust me, and therefore be more likely to trust someone I trust.  That’s basic human psychology.”

L digested this for a moment, nibbling on his thumbnail.  At last he nodded.  “Very well.  However, I have one condition.  It is possible that it is not the face that Kira requires, but the name – Lind L. Tailor did not use an alias, after all.  So if you are to work on this case in public, you’ll need an alias.”

“Okay.”  I mulled it over for a moment, and then smiled.  “A civilian investigator working for L to try and solve a case that can’t be solved? Really only one thing I can call myself.”

L nodded.  “I see.   I shall use an alias as well, just in case.  And Casey Watson’s partner can be called only one thing.  I shall be ‘Ryuzaki,’” he clarified in response to my blank look.

“…Are you serious?”

“Quite so.  I rather liked the sound of it.  And the resemblance between myself and Rue Ryuzaki is quite uncanny, wouldn’t you agree?”

I hit him with a throw pillow.


	18. 4.2: The Proper Channels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death Note (c) 2003 Ohba Tsugumi and Obata Takeshi. Another Note: The Los Angeles BB Murder Cases (c) 2006 Nisio Isin. All rights reserved.

**Chapter 2: The Proper Channels**

-December 6th, 2003-

-National Police Agency, Office of the Detective-Superintendent-

Yagami Soichiro, Detective-Superintendent of the NPA and head of the Kira Taskforce, was a bespectacled and mustachioed gentleman in his late forties.  Suit crisp and tie straight, he looked like he hadn’t cracked a smile in years.  His face was lined and careworn, and he had the air of a man who was constantly on the losing end of things, and yet not without hope that things would get better soon.  In short, he looked exactly like what I imagined a gruff old police commissioner should look like, and that was enough to make me trust him.

He squinted over the rim of his glasses at my business card, then looked up at me, the lines in his face growing more pronounced with his frown.  Under his scrutiny, I felt a prickling sense of déjà vu – his stare, not so much untrusting as mingled surprise and curiosity, was the same one Naomi had given me two years ago during the Los Angeles BB murders (or so the press was now calling them).  _Can such a person_ , it seemed to say, _really be an investigator? And for L, no less?_

At last, he cleared his throat, the sound cutting through the silence too loudly.  “So – ah…”  He looked down at my business card again.

“If it’s easier for you,” I said, picking up on his distress, “please call me Casey.  Or anything works, really.  I can respond to ‘hey, you.’”  Even though it was the height of rudeness in Japanese culture to refer to a mere acquaintance by their first name alone, there was no denying that the hard consonants of my false surname were difficult for the Japanese tongue.  Yagami struck me as a man of propriety, so I had to make it clear early that I wouldn’t mind a breach of decorum. 

As expected, he did not smile at my joke, but he did bow his head in gratitude for my flexibility.  “Casey- _san_ –” It came out like _Kei-Shi_.  “–excuse me, but I’m not quite sure I understand.  You say you’re L’s assistant?”

“More like his proxy.  Obviously, L can’t show his face out in public, so when he needs boots on the ground, he sends me.  Everything I see and hear, I relate back to L, so it’s like he’s experiencing everything himself.”  I was surprised at how easily the Japanese came back to me, given that I hadn’t spoken it in almost thirteen years.  I suppose one never forgets their first language; like riding a bike or pulling a trigger, it comes back instantly. 

“I see.  And what exactly would you be doing in this office?”

Ah, here we go.  Very few groups of people on this earth were prouder than police officers, and not even the polite and considerate Japanese were an exception.  Yagami seemed all right, but no doubt the rank and file resented an interloper, in spite of and despite the apparent connection to a superior.  I smiled and adjusted my tone to be what I hoped was more conciliatory.  “Basically, anything you need me to do.  L said at that summit that he needs the help of the Japanese police, and sending one of his own proves how much he values that cooperation.  Anywhere you want me, whichever team needs some extra brainpower, I’m happy to help in any way I can.  And, of course, you and the NPA will get all the credit,” I added as an afterthought, remembering the jurisdiction squabbles back at the FBI.

To my surprise, however, Yagami shook his head.  “Neither I nor my detectives have any interest in glory.  As long as the killer is caught and brought to justice, nothing else matters.”

I couldn’t quite suppress a chuckle.  “Yagami- _san_ , you really are what a police officer ought to be, aren’t you?”

The corner of his mouth twitched, but he did not lose his no-nonsense demeanor.  “I’m nowhere near the ideal.  And – if you’ll excuse my rudeness – you don’t seem to be, either.”

I waved my hand in dismissal.  “No offense taken.  I get that I’m young, but I’m old enough to get the job done.  If you don’t believe me, talk to L.  He can tell you a thing or two about my career.”

“It’s not about whether or not a young person is able to do it.  It’s about whether or not you _should_ do it.”  He steepled his fingers and laid his elbows on the table, contemplating.  “You’re hardly older than my son, and to think of him in this sort of danger…”

I stared at him for a moment.  L had wondered more than once if I might not be better off quitting the business (earning a box about the ears for his curiosity), but no one else – not Watari, not Morrello, not Naomi – had ever said that being a detective would be bad for my well-being. What’s more, despite the fact that we were complete strangers, Yagami seemed genuine.  _Oh, Chief.  You really_ do _get beat down by the world, don’t you?_

“I’m honored to have your concern,” I said quietly, “but when it comes right down to it, neither of us have a choice in the matter.”

He sighed.  “No, I suppose we don’t.  Very well, then, Casey- _san_.”  He stuck out his hand.  “Welcome to the team.  I hope we work well together.”

I shook it with enthusiasm.  “Same here.  Let’s catch this little monster.”

-

Unfortunately for me, the rest of the Taskforce did not share their chief’s sense of camaraderie.  Besides the leadership, there were 139 officers, detectives, and consultants assigned to the case, and nearly to a man, they all despised me.  Most of them were polite, of course, and gave me no outward reason to hate them, but there was a stiff formality to their behavior that broadcasted their dislike as loudly as if it had been spoken.  Two detectives in particular, an afroed man in his thirties and his squint-eyed partner, went so far as to glare openly at me when no one was looking and stalk away whenever I approached.  Not that I was surprised by any of this.  Not only was I a civilian, but I was also – seemingly – a Westerner.  The Japanese were somewhat xenophobic as a culture, and the police of any country were even more inclusive, looking down in various stages on anyone outside their department.  To have a foreigner interloping on _their_ case would automatically paint me as untrustworthy. 

Still, it wasn’t as though I was without allies.  There was L, of course, available both by phone and through a direct link from the Taskforce computer to his, which remained active at all times so that L could monitor the investigation and chime in whenever he deduced something.  I’d told him that my presence at Taskforce Headquarters made this superfluous, but evidently he thought I’d miss something in my reports and was checking in just in case.  Still, he seemed to recognize why I needed to be with the Taskforce and was supportive enough.  And while Yagami didn’t exactly show me favoritism, but he treated me as he would any other member of his team, and he seemed to respect my insights into the case.  Mr. Wammy was there as well, clad in the trench coat and wide-brimmed, face-masking hat of his “Watari” persona.  He was there to maintain the direct link to L’s computer and could not speak to me, of course, but it was nice having even a silent friend in my corner.  There was also a young detective, a recent hire named Matsuda Touta, who seemed particularly taken with me.  Whenever I stood up before the whole Taskforce and made a report, he always smiled and nodded encouragingly, waving a little whenever I glanced in his direction (usually earning a slap upside the head from his neighbor for his friendliness).  During lunch breaks, he would sit next to me without asking for permission, ask questions about my life and what L was like, shrug off my vague and meaningless answers, and generally babble on about nothing in particular.  He wasn’t too bright and could get on my nerves at times, but I respected his optimism and perseverance, and he was one of only four allies I had at the moment.

That was fine by me.  I knew that I wouldn’t gain their trust overnight, and I wasn’t here to be popular for my own sake, anyway.  At the end of the day, as long as my presence created a human link with L and helped bridge the gap between him and the police even slightly, then I’d accomplished what I’d set out to do.  Either way, it would get me out of that hotel room for the day, which I considered a victory, as much as I worried about L being on his own.  Virtual detective work did not suit me, even in my Coil days.  I needed to be at the scene, get my hands dirty, to really feel like I was accomplishing something.

For the next week, that was exactly what I did, moving from team to team as needed and reporting my findings directly to L during breaks.  I had to admit, direct access to police resources was a nice change.  If I was investigating from L’s hotel room, I would have to hack into various databases, which would not only waste valuable time but also run the risk of leaving a trace and leading a counter-hacker directly to L’s location.  Without that danger, I could relax and devote my energy to deduction, and that lack of worry produced results.  Within one day of joining the Taskforce, I had already made a major deduction working with the team devoted to victim analysis.  L had been only half-right – Kira needed his victim’s face to kill, but not just that.  High-profile criminals whose names were released to the public, but not their appearances, were still alive; furthermore, several criminals’ pictures had been shown on news broadcasts and internet reports with their names misspelled, and those criminals were still alive.  Conclusion: unbelievably enough, Kira needed both his victims’ names and faces to kill.  The Taskforce as a whole thawed out a little after I presented my findings; now that I had proven my worth, I saw more friendly faces and was privy to warmer and more insightful conversations.  I was still the outsider, and it still showed, but progress was progress.  Even Afro Man grudgingly praised my work. 

Three days after I joined the Taskforce, a suggestion from L led us to yet more progress.  The team in charge of victim analysis had discovered an unusual pattern regarding the victims’ times of death.  68% of the victims died on a weekday between 16:00 and 2:00 Japan time, with a majority occurring between 20:00 and midnight.  On Sundays and national holidays, the times of death was far more scattered, with the deaths occurring between 11:00 and a little after 2:00.  L noticed that the hours which did not coincide with a death mirrored the average school-day schedule for the Kanto region, which presented the possibility that Kira could be a student.  In the hotel, away from the rest of the force, L and I fine-tuned the profile even further.  With only one or two exceptions, the deaths were spaced out in such a way that Kira could usually get eight hours of sleep before the starting bell of most Kanto schools.  There was also a block of open time on Tuesdays and Thursdays that coincided with the operating hours of several cram schools in the area which focused on preparing for college entrance exams.  With all that emphasis on studying, attending classes, and maintaining proper mental health, L and I concluded that it was most likely that Kira was in his third and final year of high school, prepping for his entrance exams in between murders.  It was our biggest step forward yet.

However, the very next day, we were pushed another two steps back.  Less than a day after hypothesizing that Kira was a student, the pattern of killing changed.  One criminal died every hour on the hour, for a total of twenty-four.  The day after that, a further twenty-four criminals died in the same way.  All of them were prison inmates, so we discovered them immediately.

“So what now?” I asked L that night.  “I guess he could’ve skipped a couple days of school, but my gut’s telling me otherwise…”

L looked up from the house of sugar cubes he was constructing beside his coffee cup.  The topmost section was already towering over the rim and wobbling dangerously.  “You’re missing the point, Casey.  What is the exact significance of one death per hour, and of criminals whom the police will find instantly?”

“L – sorry, Ryuzaki – I am seriously not in the mood for a pop quiz right now, okay? You’re the one investigating this case, technically, so go ahead and deduce without me.”

“You won’t be able to grow as an investigator if I do the work for you.  Regular mental stimulation can only benefit you in the long run, and there may come a time when you will have to investigate Kira without me, as my successor or otherwise.”

I flicked the second level of his creation from the top, sending scores of little sugar cubes careening into his coffee cup.  Runaway cubes and coffee flecks dove off the table and dirtied the floor.

“…That was unnecessary.”

“The hell it was.”

“Casey.”

“Ryuzaki.”

“…”

“…”

I was the first to break eye contact.  “Fine, whatever.  One per hour, where we can find them right away…is it just excess, to drive home how wrong we are?”

“That is certainly possible, though I don’t believe our initial deduction was wrong.”  He took a sip of the coffee-flavored puddle of half-melted sugar.  “It’s more likely that Kira was simply overconfident and did not think we would track him down so quickly, or else deliberately allowed us to get close to him and then changed his methods in order to make us lose confidence.”

“Okay, well, that’s all I got.  Can you give me a hint?”

He let out a puff of air through his nose in hat was almost, but not quite, a sigh of exasperation.  “Very well.  Consider this: we do not know how Kira kills, but we can assume it takes conscious effort, or else the victims would be more random.  To kill once per hour would require him to stop whatever he was doing – meals, classes, studies, sleep – in order to carry out this task, which, for all we know, could take quite some time and effort.  This seems counterproductive for one who, up until now, took so much care to maintain his mental health by allowing proper sleep and study time.  It would be far more convenient and in line with his character –”

“– if he made the preparations for all forty-eight deaths at once,” I finished.  “Kira might be able to manipulate the time of death – it doesn’t have to be immediate!”

L nodded.  “Precisely.  Well done.”

I let out a low whistle, leaning back into the sofa and staring up at the rotating ceiling fan.  “Damn, it’s just one impossible thing after another, isn’t it? Just needing a name and face, killing from anywhere, and now killing hours before they actually die.  Is this guy even human?”

“I should hope so,” L replied, “or else we will never catch him.”  He began rebuilding the saccharine structure with the cubes that had not fallen into his cup or onto the floor.  “But you are still missing something, Casey.  Think: what is the significance of changing the pattern _now_?”

“To throw us off the scent, right? To make sure we don’t – son of a bitch.”  I smacked myself in the forehead.  “Son of a _bitch_ , what is _wrong_ with me? I should’ve caught that, like, yesterday!”

“You do seem unusually exhausted.  Infiltrating the Taskforce appears to have taken a lot out of you.  Perhaps you ought to stay here from now on.”

“Nice try.”  I leaned forward this time, hunching my shoulders and letting my arms dangle freely, fingers interlocked.  “Kira knows what’s going on in the Taskforce.  Either we’ve got a mole, or a hacker.”

“Right again.  With a little effort, you managed to solve it quickly enough.”

“Are you making fun of me?” I held my hand, poised to flick again, near the remnants of his sugar cube tower.

“Actually, I was praising you, and advising you to have more confidence in yourself.”

“Humph.”  I withdrew my hand.  “So what now? Do we cut our losses and leave the Taskforce out of it from now on?”

L shook his head.  “No.  The Japanese police are absolutely vital to solving this case.”

“How, exactly?”

Predictably, he didn’t answer me.  “It would be more effective to investigate the source of the leak ourselves, or with the use of a third party, perhaps a large organization such as the FBI or CIA.  In secret, of course.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea? If the police find out, they’ll quit trusting you.  Without trust, we won’t get anywhere.  They might even start investigating you in retaliation.”

“Their investigation will be unsuccessful, and they will most certainly not find out.  I shall use only the most skilled and least conspicuous agents, and the probe will not be intrusive.  Only some light surveillance of the Taskforce members and their close family members.  Once we have determined that the leak did not come from any of the Taskforce members themselves, then we can conduct a more thorough probe with the NPA’s knowledge and assistance.”

“I still think this is a terrible idea.  It’s too risky for you.”

“And what is our alternative? Investigating on our own, without police resources? Carrying on and revealing all our progress directly to Kira?” For the first time, he turned and looked at me in the eye, his gaze so intense that it sent shivers coursing through me.  “Forty-eight criminals have died in the past forty-eight hours, and more will come.  The longer this goes on; the more people will die.  We must do all we can to prevent that, even at personal risk.  I did not think I would have to tell you this.”

Suddenly bashful, I looked away.  “It’s not me I’m worried about, you know,” I mumbled.

“I do, and I appreciate your concern.  However, if it means capturing Kira, I will accept any consequences.  You ought to, as well.”

I took a deep breath, then let it out slowly.  “Fine.  If you’re thinking FBI, then I’ve got some names for you.”

-

-December 27th, 2003-

The FBI had already been in Japan for almost two weeks.  L had chosen twelve agents, split them up into four teams, and sent them off to tail the 141 people with access to Taskforce information, plus their families.  Since the NPA system had not been hacked, the culprit either worked for the NPA or had access to the system through a family member’s work computer; since all 141 police officers had work laptops, and most had home networks that would leave no trace of a second user, this would not narrow the field at all.  The FBI agents would spend, at most, a week on the most likely suspects – that is, the third-year high-schoolers that fit our initial Kira profile – and a few days on everyone else.  They would report suspicious activity directly to L or me, but so far, with over half the suspects already cleared, nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

For L, the steps and counter-steps of running two investigations at once was just another day on the job, but I was rocketing dangerously close to my limit.  I wasn’t impartially observing the Taskforce through a one-way webcam; I was right in the thick of it, playing my cards close to the vest, pretending nothing had changed.  I had to look into Matsuda’s big brown eyes and try to return his toothy grin, knowing that his mother was being spied on.  I had to give my reports to Yagami, knowing that his son was being followed everywhere he went because he fit our profile.  If I slipped up in any way, then all that work I had put in trying to craft a good working relationship would have been for nothing.  And that was the best case scenario – at worst, I could put L in serious danger.  The police could tail me in turn, which would lead them straight to L.  I wasn’t confident that I could shake off their investigation indefinitely. 

As if that weren’t enough pressure, L and Mr. Wammy were no longer the only people I had to worry about.  I had given L names of former colleagues in the FBI because I knew that they could get the job done efficiently without being caught.  They were all excellent agents with shining service records, but I also knew every single one of them personally and could even call some of them friends.  My top pick, Misora Naomi, had thankfully retired from the FBI earlier this year, but Raye Penber was not only still an agent, but also tailing some of our prime suspects.  Raye Penber, who had always greeted me at the front desk in the morning and said good night to me as he was leaving, even if he was in the middle of a conversation.  Raye Penber, who despite his old-fashioned way of thinking was still a nice guy.  Raye Penber, Naomi’s fiancé.  I was the one who recommended him for this assignment; if something happened to him, it would be my fault that he was in Japan in the first place.  Kira had not started killing police officers yet, but he had killed Lind L. Tailor without knowing his true identity, just because he had vowed to capture him…if Kira happened to be among the people Raye was tailing, then the very fact that he was under surveillance would make him lash out, just as he did with the TV broadcast.  Raye – along with Haley, Freddi, and the rest of my friends – was in constant danger.  Despite their experience, I feared for their safety.

Those were my special worries.  Add that to the day-to-day worries of hunting down a serial killer, keeping L safe, keeping Mr. Wammy safe, and the crushing sense of inadequacy that came with each new victim, and I was just about burned out.  The hours weren’t helping either.  Even though I wasn’t technically part of the Taskforce, I didn’t want to put in any less effort then they did, so I kept the same long hours that they did, dawn till almost midnight.  And after that, I had to debrief L, who never seemed to sleep and wanted me to relay every last second of my day in minute detail, the result of which being I never seemed to sleep, too.  I knew that I had no right to complain, since I was in the same boat as everyone else, but it was still rough.  We hadn’t even celebrated Christmas.  It wasn’t like it was a big holiday in Japan anyway, but still.  No tree or presents or tacky Christmas specials or anything.

 _I should get something for L on the way back home_ , I decided as I left the Taskforce that night.  _Just to keep morale up – mine, if not his.  I bet there are still some Christmas cakes leftover…there’s no stigma with that for L, he’ll eat any kind of cake no matter what day it is…_

It was past 23:00 at that point, so there were only late-night convenience stores open at that point.  There was one about a block away from our hotel, and I swore I could remember seeing a cake or two through the window.  Luckily, there were plenty left, no less than there had been on Christmas morning – the unspoken “no Christmas cake after Christmas” rule was particularly strict in Japan – so I picked up a not-quite-stale sponge cake with a frosted snowman for decoration and headed to the counter.  There was one person in front of me, placing individual wine bottles and packets of instant coffee in front of a tired-looking cashier.  The customer was a woman, mid-twenties, with long black hair and a leather jacket.  Even without looking at her face, I could feel it all come back – the oppressive California sun, the bullet scrambling my innards, the warm weight of her hand on my shoulder.

“Naomi?” I blurted out.  “Misora Naomi, is that you?”

She turned around so quickly that her hair smacked me in the face.  “Casey?! Ah, sorry!” It was indeed Naomi.  She brushed her hair back over her shoulder and we stood there awkwardly for a moment.  I started to go for a hug while she stuck out her hand for a shake.  We both paused and tried to switch, then repeated.  Finally, we laughed and decided on a hug that was a little too tight and just long enough without being uncomfortable.

“What are you doing here?” Naomi asked in English as we separated.

I held up the box.  “Giving these leftovers a good home.  I don’t care what the calendar says, cake is cake.”

Naomi looked like she wanted to disagree, but moved on.  “No, I mean – what are you doing in Japan?”

Ah, there was a question.  We may have been speaking a foreign language, and Naomi may have already known for whom I was working, but that didn’t mean it was safe to just come out and say it.  “Work,” I evaded.  “My boss has some business here.”

Naomi’s eyes widened, and she nodded in understanding.  “Oh, of course.  I ought to have realized…um, that’s why I’m here, too, sort of,” she went on.  “Raye’s here on business, and since I’m not working, I thought I’d tag along so he could meet my family.”

Of course.  Once a detective, always a detective; someone as bright and driven as Naomi would not sit idly back while there was a killer on the loose, job or no job.  Raye must have been disappointed, and I had to admit, I wasn’t thrilled with the idea either.  It was one thing for Raye, who was doing a necessary evil along the same lines as the job he did normally, to put his life at risk by investigate Kira.  It was quite another for Naomi, now a civilian and once my partner who knew at least half of my darkest secrets, to put herself in that sort of danger.  It’s not that she wasn’t capable – in many ways, I thought she was more capable than Raye – but I felt closer to her than I did to anyone besides L and Mr. Wammy, and therefore worried more.

I was about to tell her so when the cashier, impatient to close up and get home, prompted us with a loud clearing of his throat.  We both jumped and scrambled to make our purchases.  We were out the door in less than five minutes, with the cashier right behind us.  It turned out that we were both staying at the Teito Hotel, so we made our way over.  Rather than invite the chance of her asking what floor I was on, I suggested we hang out in the bar for a while.  She wholeheartedly agreed, and we took seats right at the counter, our purchases stuffed under our chairs.  She ordered a gin and tonic and set to work on it right away; I only sipped my whiskey sour gingerly, wary even with an old friend.

“Guess you needed that, huh?” I teased once Naomi had drained her glass.

She flushed, not entirely an effect of the alcohol.  “Uh, sorry.  It’s just – it’s been one of those weeks.  Or more than one week, actually.”

“I’ll drink to that.”  To demonstrate, I took a larger sip, relaxing somewhat as the warmth spread through my body.  “What’s the problem? Raye?”

She nodded.  “I know he’s good at his job, and I know the chances of something actually happening are pretty low, but I can’t help but worry about him.  You’d think being an agent myself would help since I know exactly what he’s going through, but it actually makes it a lot worse.” She ducked her head, not quite soon enough for me not to notice the anxiety in her face.  “He’s really late coming home tonight, too, and he’s not picking up his phone…I know he’s working, but I feel like something’s not right…”

She fell silent.  I wasn’t sure what to say, so I drank about half my glass and studied the mosaic of old stains in the countertop.  “I’m sorry,” I tried at last.  “He’s in this situation because of me and my boss.  I’m the one who put his name in for this job.” I bowed my head in apology.

Naomi, in turn, lifted her head, her expression perplexed.  “What are you talking about? Don’t be silly.  This is all to catch – all to stop the bad guys, right? If you all can do that, then a few sleepless nights are worth it.  I’d worry about him if he went around the corner for beers, to be honest.”

I could tell she was only feigning conciliation for my benefit, but I went along with it for lack of anything else to say.  _It’s past midnight…Raye’s reports say that all his marks should’ve gone in for the night by now.  What’s he doing…?_ “Yeah? I guess I know what you mean,” I said to Naomi.  After all, I started worrying about L as soon as I shut the door of the hotel suite, and I didn’t stop till we were together again.  “Though I guess it would be worse for married couples.”

“We’re not married, yet, actually,” Naomi admitted.  “The ceremony’s not till April.” She looked suddenly shy.  “You can come, if you like.  I know that would make Raye happy – and me, too.”

I grinned at her.  “That would be awesome! I’d love to go – um, if I can get time off work.”

“Of course, I understand.  I wanted to send you an invitation, but I wasn’t sure where to send it.  I have this packet back at the room with all the info – I’ve been doing some wedding planning while Raye’s out – I’ll give you the details later, so you can give them to your boss and ask for the time off.”

“Sounds good.  I’m really looking forward to it!”

“I’m so glad.” But she didn’t look it – her brow had furrowed, her hands had balled into fists on the countertop, and she was chewing on her bottom lip.  Evidently her worry for Raye was stronger than the joyous anticipation of her marriage.

I reached over and blanketed her fist with my hand.  “Hey, it’s okay.  He’s probably on the train right now and can’t get a signal.  You’ll hear from him soon.”

Her fist relaxed, and she shifted her hand so that it was holding mine.  “You’re right.  I know I’m being silly…it’s just that Raye got into trouble the other day, and since then, it’s been even harder to sit around waiting.”

“Okay, first, that’s not  silly, that’s normal.  Second, what trouble?” Raye hadn’t mentioned any problems in his last report.  Surely he would have mentioned something if it was Kira related.

“He got involved in a bus jacking, of all things.”

I straightened up on my barstool, the warmth of the alcohol fizzling away.  “Jesus Christ…was he okay?”

“He was a little shaken up, but he wasn’t hurt.  None of the passengers were.  The hijacker was hallucinating, or something – he emptied his clip out the rear window and got hit by a car as he tried to run off.  Died instantly.”

I let out a low whistle.  “Crazy.”

“Yeah…” She looked suddenly more serious than usual, which I hardly thought possible.  “That hijacker, he tried to rob a bank the day before.  He was all over the news.”

“Yeah? I hadn’t heard.  Not much time for TV these days.”

“I know; you must be working hard.  But that’s why I wanted to ask you something.” She paused, then nodded as if reassuring herself.  “Don’t you think it’s possible that the hijacker was being –?”

My new ringtone, an instrumental version of a catchy MisaMisa song Matsuda had been humming all week, interrupted her.  “Oops, sorry.  I need to take this.” Naomi nodded and waved her hand in permission.  I pulled out my phone and answered.  “Hello?”

“Where are you right now?” It was L, speaking through his voice scrambler.  He hadn’t done that with me for years, and the only reason he would was if he feared we were being bugged or otherwise at risk of discovery.

I tensed up, instantly on alert.  “Here.  Downstairs, I mean.  With a friend in the bar.”

“Come back here immediately.  Our operation has been compromised, and you could be in danger.”

Although my curiosity was piqued, I knew better than to waste time asking for details.  I hung up and said to Naomi, “Sorry, something’s come up.  You still have the same number, right? I’ll text you later.”

She looked surprised, but nodded gamely – this was standard fare in the investigative world.  “Okay.  Be careful.” I wished her the same, then lopped off toward the stairs – faster than the lift – leaving Naomi alone at the bar.  Halfway up, I realized I’d forgotten the cake, but I pressed onward, deciding that the borderline fear in L’s synthetic voice trumped sweets for the moment.

It took less than five minutes to reach the hotel room.  I jammed my key card in the reader and burst into the suite, panting from exertion.  “I’m here.  What happened?”

L was on the sofa with his computer like usual, but something was off about him.  His hunch was more pronounced than usual, almost a slump.  There was a tightness in his posture that was not there normally.  He was not just nibbling his thumbnail – he was biting it, nearly breaking the skin.  I had never seen him so agitated.

I approached him, suddenly afraid.  “Ryuzaki.  What’s going on?”

He did not lift his head or meet my eyes.  “I have made a mistake.”

 _That_ was something I never expected to hear from him, and it made my stomach flip over in alarm.  “That’s okay,” I answered as calmly and soothingly as I could.  “That’s okay, Ryuzaki.  Tell me what happened, and I’ll help you fix it.”

“I’m afraid this cannot be fixed.” He met my gaze at last, and I felt my insides freeze – for the first time, his expression was not only emotional, but deeply sorrowful.  “Forgive me, Casey.  I have sent your friends to their deaths.”

The world around me ground to a halt.  My pulse was pounding so hard that it hurt.  “How many?” I said after what felt like years.  My voice was still calm but no longer a comfort to either of us.

“Five so far.  There will certainly be more – we have lost contact with all twelve.”

“Heart attacks?”

“It would appear so.”

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to ease the stabbing pain in my chest.  “Whose bodies were they?”

“Haley Belle, Freddi Guntair, Arire Weekwood, Toors Denote, and Raye Penber.”

The ground beneath me wobbled, and it was all I could do to make it to the sofa before I fell over.  The pain in my chest was worse now; for one wild moment, I thought I was having a heart attack, too.  I took more deep breaths, but they were hitching in my throat.  My eyes were prickling but still dry.

And then I remembered.  “Fucking Christ. Naomi.”

L frowned.  “Naomi?”

“Misora.  From the B thing.  She’s Raye’s fiancée, she’s downstairs.  I gotta go tell her.” I stood up, but a wave of dizziness knocked me down again.

Even if it hadn’t, though, I’d still be stuck, for L had pinched my sleeve with surprising force, effectively shackling me.  “You will do no such thing.  Kira found the FBI agents; until we can prove otherwise, we must assume he has found you as well, and simply is waiting to kill you until you become a more serious threat.  For your safety, you ought to stay here from now on.”

I yanked my arm out of his grasp.  Ordinarily, I would resent his coddling, but I was still too shocked to think about myself.  And it wasn’t like I couldn’t see his point, after all.  “But Naomi deserves to know!” I insisted.

“She will know, soon enough.  As his next of kin, the police will be making a courtesy call before long.”

I froze, ears pricked.  “Police? They don’t – they haven’t already figured out what the FBI were doing here, have they?”

The sadness faded from L’s face, replaced with contempt.  “If they have not reasoned it out themselves, then the FBI Director will tell them.  He is severing all ties to the Kira investigation.”

So that was it, then.  Not only had we lost twelve good men, but our relationship with the Taskforce was ruined as well.  Now catching Kira was almost an impossibility; if nothing else, countless more people would die while we floundered.  This investigation was an utter failure.

I could only sink back onto the couch, hunch my shoulders, and put my head in my hands.  “Goddammit,” I muttered for lack of anything more meaningful to say.  “God fucking _dammit_.”

We stewed in silence for a long time.  At last, I felt L poke my shoulder, and I raised my head to see him offering a forkful of cake from one of his ever-present sweet platters.

“Here,” he said.  “Please have some.”

I shook my head.  “Not hungry.”

“Sugar is essential fuel for the brain, and sweets are proven to lift one’s mood.”

I snorted in spite of myself.  “Do you honestly think a piece of cake can solve this problem?”

“It certainly won’t hurt.” He extended his arm and prodded my lips with the cake.  “Please have some.”

I gave him a sour look, but obediently opened my mouth and let him dump the cake on my tongue.  The sweetness was sickening, but I chewed and swallowed without a fuss.  This was L’s way of helping, the only way he knew how, and I appreciated what passed for him as thoughtfulness.  I appreciated him even more when, after I had lowered my head again and hugged my knees to my chest, he put his fingertips on my arm and sat with me till I could pull it together again.


	19. 4.3: Expansion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death Note (c) 2003 Ohba Tsugumi and Obata Takeshi. Another Note: The Los Angeles BB Murder Cases (c) 2006 Nisio Isin. All rights reserved.

**Chapter 3: Expansion**

-December 31st, 2003-

“Are you absolutely, positively, _one-hundred percent sure_ you’re okay with this?” I hissed, leaning in toward the laptop monitor.

“I have no choice,” L answered, still too wary to forgo the voice scrambler.  “We need the assistance of the Japanese police.  If this is the only way they will consent to work with me, then so be it.”

The FBI director had made good on his word, informing the NPA of the investigation into their Taskforce as soon as he confirmed that all twelve agents had died.  As expected, the NPA was outraged, as were the Japanese public, to whom the media had leaked the information via an inside source.  Even worse, Chief Yagami had given his men permission to request transfers if they so chose, now that they were aware that Kira would kill anyone after him.  As a result, the 141-man Taskforce had withered away to six men: the chief himself, my friend Matsuda, my afroed adversary Aizawa Shuichi, his friends Ide Hideki and Ukita Hirokazu, and the silent veteran Mogi Kanzou.  Although they were all willing to risk their lives in pursuit of Kira, they rightfully had some issues trusting L, with Aizawa and Ide objecting particularly vehemently.  By association, I was on their shit lists as well; even Matsuda kept giving me the sad-puppy look and scooting away every time I tried to talk to them.  They recognized that L was necessary to this case and were willing to put up with him, but on only one condition – he would have to meet with them in person, putting himself in danger the same way they were by showing his face.

Now, as the five of them discussed outside whether or not they were truly willing to trust L if that condition was fulfilled, I was trying to convince L to back out.  Watari had left already to make preparations for the meeting, so there was no one to back me up – not that he would’ve talked back to L anyway.  “Just because they see your face, that doesn’t mean they’re automatically going to trust you.  Hell, since it’s _your_ face, they might end up trusting you less!”

“That’s a rude thing to say, Casey.”

“All I’m saying is, why should we trust people who don’t trust us? Lest we forget, Kira has a mole in the Taskforce! If it turns out that he actually is with the police, and isn’t just hacking the system, then he wouldn’t have quit with all those others – he’d take the opportunity to see your face.  You could be inviting your own murderer to visit!”

“That would be highly unlikely.  If Kira is a police officer, then there would have been no point in masquerading as a student and then suddenly changing the time of death for those forty-eight.  Furthermore, it would be impossible to continue killing while at the headquarters all day, under your and my watchful eyes.”

“But still –”

“And even if it were the case that Kira was among us physically,” L interrupted, his tone taking on an impatient edge, “that would be a risk I would have to take.  As I keep saying, this case cannot be solved without the help of –”

This time, it was my turn to snap.  “But _why_ , though? What can the police do for you that I can’t? The whole point to me working with you is that I can go out in public and do all the in-person stuff while you stay safe! Everything the police have done so far was something I could’ve done on my own, so why are you so desperate to give these morons _my_ job?”

“Your work has always been exemplary, and I would not want you to think otherwise,” L said after a moment, his voice a bit gentler.  “The police are not taking your job; rather, they are making it easier.  The NPA resources are vast, and its information system can answer our logistics questions quite efficiently.  While I have no doubt that you would be able to discover such information on your own, it would take far more time, time during which more needless deaths would occur.  I know you would be against that.”

I balked somewhat.  He had me there.  “That doesn’t mean we have to work with the actual detectives, though.”

“On the contrary, additional manpower helps a great deal.  It is true enough that you are, in a certain sense, more experienced than Chief Yagami’s men, and I trust you above all others.  However, this situation is more dangerous than any you have yet faced.  Your adversary this time can kill you without you ever meeting him directly, which leaves you no method of defending yourself.    It is of paramount importance that I lessen the danger for you as much as I can, hence the detectives of the NPA, who can take your place if necessary.”

I stared at the floating black “L” on the screen for a long time, and when I spoke again, my voice was hesitant.  “So…so you’re willing to throw away their lives, just to so I don’t have to risk mine?” 

“Yes, I am,” L replied without a second’s hesitation.  “Among my priorities, your safety is second only to apprehending Kira.  If it were a choice between your life and the life of one of those men, I would choose your life every time.”

I opened my mouth, but no sound came out.  How the hell was I supposed to respond to something like that? Of course I was upset at his blatant disregard of his comrades’ lives, but to hear him declare _that_ , with what sounded like real feeling…I hated to admit it, but I felt little bubbles of happiness floating through me.  It was nice to be appreciated, especially by him.

They burst almost immediately, though, for before I could reply properly, the doors to the meeting hall opened, and Yagami and his men strode purposefully inside.  Or rather, Yagami, Matsuda, Aizawa, Ukita, and Mogi strode in.

“Where’s Ide- _san_?” I asked.

Yagami looked grim.  “He’s not coming.  Apparently, just seeing L’s face won’t change anything for him.”  Aizawa had a self-righteously sour look on his face, but the other three had the grace to look away sheepishly. 

“That’s a shame,” L said, “but I accept his decision.  As you said, Yagami- _san_ , this investigation can only move forward if we can all trust each other completely.”  With no further preamble, he launched into his instructions: the remaining detectives would split into two teams and go to L’s hotel room separately, as a large group would attract attention.  To seem even less conspicuous, the teams would arrive at least a half hour apart, with everyone meeting up by midnight – that is, by the new year, 2004.  It was decided that I would conduct Yagami and Matsuda to the room myself, while Aizawa, Ukita, and Mogi would follow on their own.  From now on, L’s hotel room would be the unofficial Taskforce headquarters, and as an additional precaution, he would henceforth be changing hotels every few days.  With no objections, I powered down the laptop, scribbled down the hotel and room number on a scrap of paper, handed it to a surprised-looking Aizawa, and escorted my team outside.

The Teito Hotel was only six or so blocks from the NPA building, so it didn’t take us too long to get there, though Aizawa and the others would definitely have left already by the time we made the lobby.  All three of us were silent during the walk over, but by the time the lift doors slid shut before us, Matsuda could no longer contain himself.  “Um, excuse me, Casey- _san_?”

“I thought you weren’t talking to me,” I said without turning around.

“O-Oh, right.  I’m not.”  In the reflective doors, I saw Matsuda puff out his chest and scowl, eager to match his seniors.  I couldn’t help but smile a little, picturing a little puppy stumbling after the hunting pack.  After a few seconds, though, Matsuda deflated somewhat, apparently putting his curiosity above his self-image.  “But, um, Casey- _san_?”

“What?”

“I know I’ve asked this before, and I know you couldn’t say much back then, but since we’re going to meet L now…could you tell me what he’s like?”

I thought about just evading the question again, but he had a point – he’d get the answers for himself in a minute.  Yagami, too, was looking curious, though his face would probably snap back to its usual stern expression the moment his junior officer glanced his way.  Bowing to the inevitable, I said, “Well, he’s as brilliant as everyone says he is.  More, probably.  But, well…he’s odd.  He does some weird things, and it’ll take a while to get used to them.”

“Weird things?” Matsuda echoed.  “Like what?”

I glanced over my shoulder at him and smiled.  “Oh, no, I’m not ruining the surprise.  Let’s just say that whatever it is you’re expecting, the real thing will blow you out of the water.  In all sorts of ways.”

The two detectives exchanged bewildered glances, but Yagami’s face was its usual stoic mask when he turned back to me.  “Casey- _san_ , let me ask you frankly.  Is L truly capable of solving this case?”

I turned around to look him straight in the eye.  “He is the only person on earth who can solve it.” Yagami still looked uncertain, but he nodded and fractionally relaxed.

At that moment, the doors slid open again.  We stepped out onto the top floor and walked down the hall to the last door on the right.  I retrieved my key card from my wallet, but knocked on the door as a warning before using it.

“It’s unlocked,” L’s muffled voice answered.  “Please let yourself in.”

I put my card and wallet away, pushed down the handle – it was indeed unlocked – and held it open.  “After you, gentlemen.” The two exchanged another look, this time of mingled anticipation and determination, and then stepped over the threshold.  I brought up the rear, shutting the door with a bit more force than could be considered necessary.

To my relief, L was not visible from the entrance; he must have been waiting to make a dramatic entrance until everyone had arrived.  I invited Yagami and Matsuda to sit down and offered them coffee.  Matsuda looked like he wanted to accept, but Yagami elected to wait in the front hall until the rest of his team arrived, and the image-conscious rookie had no choice but to follow his boss’ lead.  I had no such scruples and advanced further through the suite, putting on a pot of coffee and tossing my purse and coat onto a chair as I passed by.

When the water finished boiling, I approached the single closed door in the suite – L’s heretofore unused bedroom.  He must have been hunkered down in there while he waited for the full assembly.  I drummed on the door with three fingers.  “It’s me.  You decent?”

“In which sense?”

I rolled my eyes and opened the door.  The room was dark, as was L’s custom, and its occupant was slouching before a mirror, studying his face as a scholar studied ancient texts, which was not L’s custom.  I closed the door and came up to stand behind him, my face appearing over his shoulder in the reflection.  “Trying to look pretty for your new friends?” I teased.

“No.  I’m trying to figure out what is so untrustworthy about my face.”

I opened my mouth, decided against opening that can of worms, and let out a sigh.  “Nothing, don’t worry about it.  It was just joke.”

“It wasn’t very funny.”

“Sorry.  Didn’t realize you were so sensitive.” I clapped him on the shoulder, which made him jump slightly and tense up.  “Really, there’s no problem.  I like your face.”

Our reflections met each other’s eyes.  “You do?” L asked, sounding bewildered.

“Sure I do.  It’s cute.  You’re like a panda or something.”

L tilted his head, frowning.  “I don’t see the resemblance.”

“Well, whatever.” I plopped down onto the bed, wrinkling the pristine sheets.  “Hey, it’s not too late to back out, you know.  We can say that I’m actually L, and you were my proxy.”

L turned around slowly.  “So you are willing to take up my mantle after all, even temporarily? How surprising.  You don’t even allow that in a hypothetical sense.”

I scowled at him.  “Needs must and all that.”

“Indeed, which is why I am revealing myself.  I have lost this first set against Kira, so it is only fitting that I suffer a penalty.  I cannot have you take my place.”

I knew there was no point in arguing further, so I expressed my unhappiness by sighing again.  “Fine, whatever.  Just promise you’ll be careful.”

“I would, but there is no need.  Now that the Taskforce will be headquartered in my hotel room, I’ll have you here to look after me.”

Two simple statements that sent me reeling in less than an hour.  That had to be some kind of record.  I forced myself to look exasperated.  “I can’t protect you from everything, L.”

“But you can protect me from many things, enough so that I feel quite at ease with you.” He wasn’t even looking at me when he said it.

I swallowed past the lump in my throat and took a second to compose myself.  “L, when you say things like that, do you know that I’m –?”

I paused, cut off by the incessant beeping of the alarm clock on the night stand (why L would need to set an alarm when he never slept was beyond me).  I glanced at it – midnight, the start of the year 2004.  Against all odds and my own expectations, I’d made it another year.

“Happy New Year, Casey,” L said.  He turned to face me and bowed – or rather ducked his head and increased his slouch.  “Let’s have another good one.”

“Y-Yeah.  Happy New Year, Ryuzaki.”

“What did you want to say just now?”

“…It’s nothing, forget it.” No good would come from saying _that_.  Once the words were out, they could never be taken back, and the life I had now, which I cherished more than any I’d had before, would disappear forever.  The odds did not favor such a risk.

L frowned a little, but nodded.  “Very well.  Shall we go out?”

“Yeah, let’s not keep them in suspense any longer.”

I stood up, and we stepped together out onto the battlefield.

-

The Taskforce, of course, was collectively startled by L’s appearance and mannerisms, but seeing him in person seemed to have made their animosity dissipate.  When the introductions were over with, L relayed his latest theory to us: Kira was one of the people being tailed by the FBI between their arrival in Japan on December 14th and a certain string of deaths on December 19th.  Those victims may have all died of heart attacks, but the circumstances surrounding their deaths were unusual, including several suicide notes, a pentagram drawn in blood on the wall, and an escaped prisoner dying in a staff toilet.  L hypothesized that those victims were experiments in how well Kira could control the circumstances surrounding a death, marking yet another inexplicable power.  The results of those experiments, L argued, would dictate the manner in which the FBI were killed; ergo, Kira would have had to become aware of the FBI’s presence prior to the 19th.  Only about thirty people had been tailed and cleared during that time, which greatly improved Taskforce optimism.  After one more pressing issue – individual interrogations by L to ensure that none of the detectives were Kira (which they all passed) – the team split up, Yagami to report this new theory to the deputy director, Aizawa to cover for us at the former Taskforce headquarters, and Matsuda, Ukita, and Mogi to round up surveillance footage of the FBI agents’ investigations and deaths.

As soon as the door closed on the last of them, I slumped back in my chair, a wave of exhaustion breaking over me.  Now that L and I were alone, I could finally relax.  I didn’t especially mistrust the Taskforce, but it was risky business having L meet with an outsider in person.  After the FBI fiasco, it was becoming harder and harder to feel confident in my own abilities, no matter L’s thoughts on the matter.  Better for everyone if L’s location became a sealed unit again…but of course, that was off the table permanently now.

“You sound quite tired,” L observed.  “Perhaps you ought to rest before the others return.  My apologies for the sleepless night.”

I waved him away.  “I’ll be fine.  If you’re doing it, I’ll do it.  Kira’s not sleeping, after all.”

“Perhaps not at this very moment, no, but he will be at one point.  It is simple biology.”

“Speak for yourself.  By the way, I just realized something.  We checked to make sure none of those detectives were actually Kira, but how come you didn’t interrogate me?”

“Because I did not think it could be possible,” L replied.  “Certainly, you are intelligent enough to be Kira, but based on our previous profile, your personality doesn’t match.  Although I have often heard you bemoan the flaws of the justice system, you still believe in it, and you have a fundamental optimism for human nature and an absolute respect for human life.  Kira has neither, so I was able to eliminate you as a suspect almost as soon as the thought occurred to me.”

“Oh.”  Feeling self-conscious, I smoothed down the hair at the top of my head.  “I didn’t realize you had such faith in me.”

“Of course I do.  You are my partner.  I trust you above all others.”

“…Yeah, thanks, Ryuzaki.  I feel the same.”  In an attempt to backpedal from this dangerous conversation, I turned in my chair to look over at Mr. Wammy, who was clearing the table of last night’s empty coffee cups.  “Hey, Watari, those were some pretty cool belts back there.  Looks like you’ve got another success.  Way to go.”  Earlier, he had gifted the Taskforce with his latest Wammy Original: belts that not only tracked the wearer but also allowed for one-way communication by connecting a pressure switch in the belt buckle to Mr. Wammy’s cell phone.

“You are too kind,” he replied with a smile, “though in truth, those models were only prototypes.  My _true_ invention is – well, perhaps I ought to show you.  One moment, please.”  He retreated into his own section of the suite, dropping off the tray of dirty dishes at the sink on the way.  A few minutes later, he was back, holding a shining silver belt with all the care a mother would use when handling her newborn.  “This is the finished product.  It has the same tracking device and pressure sensor in the belt buckle as the earlier model, but you’ll notice that there is a shell covering the remainder of the belt.”  He tapped it with a fingernail to demonstrate, producing a hard clicking sound.  “The shell covers more sensors, which monitor the wearer’s vital signs, blood sugar, hormone concentration, and so on.  The sensors send signals to both my and Ryuzaki’s cell phones and are effective at a distance of up to fifty kilometers.”

I whistled.  “Impressive as always, though I don’t suppose I should be surprised.  How come you didn’t give this one to the others?”

“I only have the one,” Mr. Wammy answered.  “It is a complicated piece of equipment, and at the moment, I only have access to a limited set of materials.  Also, Ryuzaki considered the tracking device and emergency contact system sufficient for the Taskforce, and I tend to agree.”

“So, this one –”

“Is for you,” Ryuzaki finished, two fingers at his mouth.  “I want you to wear this at all times.”

I raised an eyebrow.  “I’m flattered you’re thinking of me, but how come I get special treatment? I’m doing the same thing as Yagami and the rest.”

“As I mentioned earlier, your safety is a higher priority for Watari and I both, for obvious reasons.”  Mr. Wammy nodded in agreement.  “Also, you would be my first choice to take on more complicated and dangerous tasks for me, which means you will need more protection.  If we are fully aware of your status while an emergency is taking place, we will be able to respond faster and more efficiently, thus significantly increasing the chances of a safe and quick recovery.”

“For what possible reason would you need to know my hormone concentration?”

Mr. Wammy coughed as a warning, but L ignored it and plunged off the cliff anyway.  “As an early warning system, so that I can anticipate when your deductive abilities will be less potent and can adjust accordingly.”

I stood up, walked around his chair to stand behind him, and clapped a hand on his shoulder, squeezing hard.  “You wanna run that by me again, buddy?” I said in a low voice, any remnants of the earlier goodwill fading like smoke.

L didn’t react.  “It isn’t an insult; it’s a fact.  I have observed your reasoning skills drop by twenty percent during the peak of your cycle.”

“Ryuzaki,” Mr. Wammy said in admonishment.  I squeezed his shoulder tighter.

L craned his neck up and back, so that he was looking at me upside-down.  “You are quite literally giving birth to the lining of your own internal organs.  It is only natural that your performance suffers as you do.”

There was no malice or flippancy behind his words, so I decided to be the bigger person and let go of his shoulder.  “Ryuzaki, it’s really not okay to talk about a girl’s cycle like that.”

“Is that so? I apologize.”  He lowered his head.  “Though to be fair, I would not have started talking about it had you not asked.”

“…You know what? I think I will lie down for a bit.”

“That would be wise.”

I sighed and then headed for the foyer, where my phone was waiting.  As an extra precaution, L did not allow any working communication devices in his presence, and so the Taskforce and I had turned off our phones and left them in a box for safekeeping.  Mine was now the only one left.  I picked it up and turned it on, intending to try calling Naomi for the umpteenth time.  I had tried every few hours since the night Raye had died, but she never picked up.  She must have known by now – everyone did – but I wanted to see how she was holding up and help her however I could.

There was a soft _ding_ as my phone powered up, followed by a not-so-soft oath as I looked at my notifications.

“What is it?” L called out from the main room.

“I missed Naomi’s call!” I went to my voicemail and put the phone to my ear.

“ _Casey, it’s Naomi_ ,” the message began.  Naomi’s voice sounded cracked and exhausted, but there was still energy behind it.  “ _Sorry I haven’t returned your calls before now.  Call me back as soon as you get this, okay? I’ve been investigating Kira, and I think I’m on to something.  I’ll be at the Taskforce headquarters._ ”  The recording stopped abruptly. 

I immediately called her back, but the call went straight to voicemail.  “Godda – Naomi, it’s me.  Pick up your damn phone already.  Didn’t you say you’d be waiting?” I tried three more times, but still no answer, prompting another string of oaths.

L shuffled into view.  “Anything wrong?”

“Naomi says she’s been investigating Kira and has a lead, but she’s not answering her phone.”  Remembering how the message ended, I tried the tip line for the Kira Taskforce.  Aizawa should have made it back there by now.

To my relief, he had.  He picked up on the third ring, sounding bored.  “This is the Special Investigation Headquarters for the Criminal –”

“Aizawa- _san_ , it’s Casey,” I cut him off.  “Is there a woman in the lobby? Late twenties, long hair, probably wearing a leather jacket?”

“Uh, I dunno.  There was no one like that when I came by.”

“Could you check, please? It’s important.”

“All right, all right,” he answered, sounding a little miffed.  “Wait right there.”  Bland holding music began to play, and I waited, growing more irritated and impatient by the second.  Just when I was about to hang up, the music cut off, and Aizawa spoke again.  “Hello, Casey- _san_? Front desk says there was a woman matching that description there about an hour ago, but she left.  She was pretty heated about speaking with the Taskforce, but since there wasn’t anyone there –”

“Did she say where she was going?” I interrupted.

Aizawa’s response was a little peeved.  “Take it easy.  She didn’t, but she was with the chief’s son.”

I blinked.  “Yagami- _san_ ’s?”

“Yeah, Light- _kun_.  He was dropping off a change of clothes for his dad and overheard, so he offered to wait around with her until he could get a hold of his dad.  They left together.” Pause.  “Hello? Casey- _san_? Hell –”

I hung up and let the phone slip through my fingers and drop onto the coffee table.  I sank onto the sofa, feeling still and brittle, like glass before a tossed stone.  _Yagami Light…third year in high school…tailed by Raye Penber…_

“What’s the matter?” L asked.  “You look ill.”

I jumped; I’d nearly forgotten he was there.  “I think –” My voice cracked, and I took a shuddering breath in an attempt to compose myself.  It failed.  “I think Naomi’s dead.”


	20. 4.4: Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death Note (c) 2003 Ohba Tsugumi and Obata Takeshi. Another Note: The Los Angeles BB Murder Cases (c) 2006 Nisio Isin. All rights reserved.

**Chapter 4: Light**

-January 11th, 2004-

Yagami Light, seventeen years old and the oldest of two, was in his final year of high school and a certifiable genius.  According to Chief Yagami, he had the highest score on the nation-wide mock college entrance exams, and his first choice of university was To-Oh, the most prestigious and intellectual school in the country.  His ambition was to follow in his father’s footsteps and join the NPA, which seemed not only reasonable, but within reach for him.  He had plenty of friends, but usually spent most of his time at home studying, whether there was a test upcoming or not.  But that wasn’t all; besides being smart, Light was also athletic, approachable, polite, got along well with his family, never made trouble for anyone, and – even I had to admit it – pretty good-looking, too.  In short, he seemed to have no faults at all.  He was literally perfect.

Except that he seemed narcissistic, subtly looking down on everyone less smart than him (read: everyone).  Except that that part of his personality, along with his IQ, his sense of justice, and his lifestyle, made him a perfect match for our Kira profile.  Except that he was the last person to have seen Naomi alive – Naomi, who had contacted no one, not even her mother, who was now on the official list of missing persons, and who was still nowhere to be found.  And except for the fact that he had been tailed by Raye Penber, whom L had determined was the missing link between Kira and the other agents.

When Kira had killed the them, he had attempted to cover his tracks by manipulating events so that every agent was in possession of a personnel file before he died.  That file contained the names and faces of all twelve agents, and had been emailed out to all twelve simultaneously.  It was impossible to determine which copy Kira had seen, and therefore impossible to determine with which agent Kira had made contact.  However, upon reviewing several surveillance tapes, L determined that the link in question was Raye Penber.  As he was dying (a scene I couldn’t bear watching, so I had to take L’s word for it), he was looking and gesturing at the inside of the subway he had just exited, suggesting that there was someone just behind the doors watching him.  L had also noticed that when Raye had boarded the train, he had been in possession of a manila envelope, but such a thing was not listed among Raye’s personal effects.  Finally, using FBI data analysis (a parting gift from the FBI Director), he discovered that while Agent Haley Belle was the first to receive the file, Raye was the first to have asked for it.  Little, meaningless details by themselves, but altogether, they started to form the investigation’s first real lead.  Out of all Raye’s targets tailed between the 14th and the 19th, the best match was Yagami Light, so here we were.

“Hey, no peeking!” I chastised, slamming a throw pillow against L’s face.  “Let Sayu- _chan_ bathe in peace!”

L mumbled something into the fabric, and I tugged the bottom half upwards, exposing his mouth but still shielding his eyes.  “I said, the whole point of surveillance is that someone has to watch.”

“Not you, though.”  I turned toward Yagami, who had already covered his wan face with his hands.  “You’ve got the right idea, Chief.  And, uh…sorry.”  He waved one hand at me, though I wasn’t sure if he was dismissing my apology or me.

Four days ago, L had decided to take the investigation to the next level by installing security cameras and wires in the homes of Raye Penber’s targets – specifically, the homes of Yagami and Deputy-Director Kitamura.  As a courtesy to the chief, only he and L monitored his own house, while the rest of the Taskforce monitored the Kitamura family; I went back and forth between the two, mostly to take over whenever a female household member used the toilet or shower, but spent just slightly more time watching the Yagami house.  Ostensibly, we were observing everyone equally, but L and I were secretly (or in L’s case, not so secretly) focusing on Light.  At the moment – actually, the same thing he did every night so far – our target was holed up in his bedroom, studying for the entrance exams that would begin in six days.

L was L, of course, and I had snatched a few hours of sleep here and there, but poor Yagami had gotten almost no sleep in three days.  Not that I blamed him – I couldn’t imagine the suffering he was going through, knowing that his family members were not only being spied on but also suspected of murdering hundreds of people.  I felt really badly for him, but it’s not like there was anything I can do to set his mind at rest.  This was an investigation; we had to catch Kira, no matter the cost.  I knew that, L knew that, Yagami knew that.  He was the one who had approved it in the first place.  But still, he was looking so gray…

“Yagami- _san_ , won’t you go lie down?” I asked after a moment.  “You’ll hardly make progress if you collapse.”

He shook his head, face still covered.  “Thank you, but I’d rather stay here.  Even if I lie down, I won’t get any rest.”

That made sense.  “Well, how about you go help the others with the deputy director’s house? They probably need some fresh eyes, and you’ll just keep them covered up in here.”  Yagami hesitated, but agreed, stumbling across the room with his face still covered.

“Are you watching, Casey?” L asked once the door to the adjoining room had shut.

“Yeah, I’m watching.  Pretty hard to ignore eighty freaking monitors.”

“What do you see?”

“Sayu- _chan_ has gorgeous skin.  Can we zoom in on that moisturizer label?”

“Not her.  Yagami Light.”

“Oh.”  I glanced at the sixty-four monitors entirely devoted to Light’s room.  “Studying, same as always.”

“No change in expression?”

“None.  I don’t think he’s killing, Ryuzaki.”

He sighed into the pillow.  “And yet criminals are still dying…”

Our hope was to catch Light in the act, or else, if he realized we were watching him, prove that Light was Kira if no one died under our scrutiny.  Unfortunately, the rate of deaths had not changed.  It was true that Kira could control time of death, but these latest victims had all been announced on the news after the surveillance began.  We had no control over what Light did outside the house, but on the very first night of surveillance, two criminals had been announced and killed within the hour while Light studied with his TV and computer off.  There was no way to tie him to the crime, which made him look innocent.  On the other hand, the two that had died that night were an embezzler and a purse-snatcher, and Kira’s victims up till then had been murderers and other violent criminals.  That was certainly suspicious…but there was no evidence…I sighed and rubbed my temple with my free hand, the circular reasoning giving me a headache.

On screen, Sayu was toweling herself off and slipping into her pajamas.  “Okay, you’re good,” I said and lowered the pillow.  L shook himself off, shot me a wounded look, and went back to watching with me.  Sayu had told her brother that the shower was free, and now Light was meandering toward the bathroom, towel and night clothes under one arm.  Once inside, he shut the door, hung up his towel, folded his nightclothes neatly, and started tugging off his shirt.  I caught a glimpse of an ill-defined six-pack before I got a faceful of fabric.

“Your turn,” L said, the slightest hint of smugness in his voice.

“Yeah, yeah,” I mumbled into the pillow.  I turned my head so that the pillow was covering my cheek rather than my airways, looking over toward L.  “I could just leave, you know.”

“Not just yet.  I need to ask you something.”  He paused, nibbling a fingernail on his free hand.  “Casey, are you physically attracted to Yagami Light?”

I stared at him.  “…Are you?”

It wasn’t often that L gave me a dirty look, but when he did, it was something magnificent to behold.  The expression currently on his face could have hung next to the Mona Lisa.

“Kidding, kidding.  Um, let’s see…I need another look.  Could you move the pillow?”

“Rely on your memory.”

“Fine.”  I thought for a moment.  “I guess he’s conventionally attractive, yeah.  He’s not really my type, but his face is aesthetically pleasing.  If you’re into that sort of thing.”

“I see.”  Was it my imagination, or did he sound a little cheerier?

I cleared my throat.  “Why do you ask?”

He took so long to answer that I thought he hadn’t heard.  “Earlier, Matsuda- _san_ said that Light must have been…I believe his exact words were ‘beating the girls back with a stick’ because he was so handsome, and that he probably was harassed constantly by various girlfriends.  In truth, Matsuda- _san_ seemed rather envious of the notion.”

I snorted.  “He would.”

“If it is indeed true that Yagami Light is so desirable to the opposite sex, I was curious as to whether you felt that way as well.”

“That doesn’t exactly answer _why_ , though.”  He kept on staring at me in silence.  I sighed again.  “Well, just because I find him attractive doesn’t mean I’m attracted to him.”

He tiled his head to the side.  “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Well, for one thing, he could be a mass murderer.  That turns a girl off pretty quick.”  L nodded in agreement.  “For another, his face may be cute, but his personality sure isn’t.  He is _way_ too full of himself.  You see how long he takes to do his hair in the morning? He’s never going to care about anyone more than he cares about his own reflection.”

L’s mouth curved upward slightly.  “I see.  So you consider arrogance unattractive…”

“At that level, yeah.  It’s fine in moderation, when it’s called for.  Still waiting on _why_.”

“Curiosity.”

“That still –”

“Do you believe Yagami Light could be Kira?” L cut in.

I glowered at him, but conceded the battle.  “He’s certainly suspicious.  I mean, the student thing, the leak at the NPA, Raye, N-Naomi –” My voice broke, and I had to take a few deep breaths before continuing.  “That kid’s been at the center of it all.  If he’s not Kira, then he’s involved somehow, and if he’s not involved somehow, that would be one hell of a coincidence.”

L nodded.  “I agree.”

“But,” I went on somewhat reluctantly, “it’s only a theory.  Four days of surveillance, and still nothing.  There was nothing to indicate Light did anything when those minor criminals died, and there’s been no hard evidence tying him to any Kira incidents thus far.  He hasn’t even indicated that he supports Kira – he doesn’t seem to care one way or the other.”  I hesitated.  “Ryuzaki, I hate to say this –”

“You agree with the others and believe we should remove the cameras and listening devices,” L finished.  His voice was flatter than usual, a sign of exasperation.

“Yes, but not for the same reasons.  No evidence is one thing, but I’m pretty sure – like ninety percent sure,” I corrected, once L shot me a questioning look, “that Light knows we’re watching him.”

His head tilted to the other side.  “The reason?”

“Think about it.  This is Light’s room, his private space, the one place where he doesn’t have to put on airs in front of anyone.  And yet all the time we’ve been watching, he hasn’t relaxed at all.  He hasn’t done anything that would embarrass him out in public, like scratch himself or pick his nose or whatever.  He changes in the bathroom, where there’s only one camera – one angle for us to view.  Even the other day, when he was reading those porn rags, he was…well, he was _only_ reading them.  Not, er –”

“Engaging, as it were,” L finished, his expression completely blank.

“Yeah.”  I glanced toward the door, grateful Chief Yagami hadn’t chosen that exact moment to come back in.  “What I’m saying is, we could keep monitoring him for years, and we’d never make any progress, and meanwhile, people are still dying.  If we want to catch Kira, we have to switch gears.”

“I assume you have an idea already?”

“You bet I do.”  I shoved the pillow away and switched to a kneeling position on the sofa, facing L.  I bowed slightly.  “Please let me be your shield again.”

-

-January 17th, 2004-

Thierry Morrello may have brought me out of the House for his Coil con, but that wasn’t all he used me for.  We were partners on countless other grifts, and along the way, he taught me everything he knew: how to get close to a mark, how to find their weaknesses, and most importantly, how to get what you wanted without the mark realizing you had it until it was too late.  I was no con woman and never would be, but I paid attention, thinking that even as a detective fighting the bad guys, thinking like a bad guy might help me catch them one day.  So that was exactly what I was going to do.  I was going to grift Yagami Light into revealing his true identity.

It would be simple enough.  I had five semesters of undergraduate studies at USC under my belt, officially put on hold to “care for a sick relative.”  Mr. Wammy and I sorted it out with the To-Oh admissions board – they would accept my credits and put me in the advanced classes so long as I passed the entrance exam.  That would be no problem; testing was all I had done from babyhood till the day I left the House.  The problem would be getting close to Light, who seemed like a guarded person at the best of times and would be on the defensive after the surveillance.  I’d have to do everything I could to make him trust me, and even more than that to make him tell me who he was.  Worst case scenario would be a honey trap, but I was willing to go that far if it meant getting results.  This sort of mission was why L had hired me in the first place, to do the things he couldn’t; if this is what I had to do to support him, then so be it.

On the first day of examinations, I arrived on campus an hour before the start of the first test and hid behind a tree close to the entrance, so that I could see the main path in while remaining invisible to approaching students.  When I saw Light’s pale brown hair and white jacket bob into view, I stepped out onto the main road and approached the entrance, coming to stand in front of a sign which read “Entrance Examinations Taking Place in Katakura Hall, Room 37B.”  I, of course, could read my native language instantly, but since I was playing the role of clueless foreigner, I frowned at the sign for a long time before pulling out a Japanese-English dictionary and rifling through it with increasing panic and frustration.  I felt a few students slow to stare at me but then hurry past with their heads down, either not confident in their English or unwilling to get involved with a suspicious foreigner.

I had anticipated that Yagami Light would be eager to show off his abilities and would have zero issues speaking a foreign language, and as expected, it was not long before I heard a soft cough followed by a voice, familiar from the surveillance recordings, speaking in clipped but correct English.  “Excuse me, Miss.  Are you all right?”

I lowered the dictionary and turned around, feigning surprise.    It was indeed Yagami Light, smiling politely and appearing to be in no hurry to reach the exam hall.  I smiled back, trying to seem flustered.  “Good morning!” I said in Japanese.  “You’re very kind, but please don’t trouble yourself.  I speak Japanese well enough.” I gestured to the sign.  “Reading’s the problem.”

“Got it,” Light replied, changing languages as seamlessly as he would change clothes.  “You do speak very well.  Better than my English!”

 _Fishing for compliments, are we? Okay, I’ll bite._ “It sounds pretty good to me.”

“Not really, but thanks.  Oh, and the sign…” He read it out to me.

I sighed in relief.  “Thank God.  I thought I’d have to check every building on campus.  I’d miss the test then.”

Light frowned.  “Miss the – I’m sorry, are you taking the Todai entrance exam?”

I nodded.  “Yup.  I’m an exchange student from the University of Southern California – or I will be, if I pass.” I stuck out my hand.  “Casey Watson.  Call me Casey.  Nice to meet you!”

Light stayed still just a fraction of a second too long, his expression unreadable.  But then I blinked and he was shaking my hand with a firm grip, all smiles again.  “I’m Yagami Light. Nice to meet you, too.”

We separated, and something in Light’s demeanor changed.  It was nothing I could put my finger on – to tell the truth, he looked exactly the same as he had a minute ago – but all the same, I got the sense that he was stiffer and warier, like he saw me as a threat.  _But I didn’t give him any reason to be suspicious, and he can’t possibly know I gave him an alias…must be projecting my own nerves…_ I was indeed nervous, and why shouldn’t I be, possibly face-to-face with the most despicable serial killer in human history?

“California, huh? Wow,” Light was saying.  “So that means you’re already in college?”

“I did two years, but I had to drop out to take care of a relative.”

“Oh, I see.” He looked appropriately sympathetic but brightened again when I assured him of my relative’s full recovery.  “Two years…I guess that makes you my _senpai_ , huh? Sorry, I should’ve been speaking more politely.” He chuckled in a good-natured way.

“Don’t worry about it,” I assured him.  “We don’t have _senpais_ in America, so it’s not something I’m used to.  Call me whatever you want.”

“Okay.  Just Casey- _san_ , then?”

“That counts as ‘whatever,’ yes.”

He smiled again, but as he opened his mouth to speak, we heard an angry voice shouting at us from within the gate.  It was a middle-aged man standing outside a building, presumably a professor and Katakura Hall respectively.  “You two! The exam will begin in ten minutes, so you’d better hurry up!”

“Aw, crap.  C’mon, let’s go.” I started to jog off toward the building, but slowed to a walk when I glanced over my shoulder and saw that Light was taking his time.

“It’s fine,” he said.  “I planned to get here three minutes before the start of the test.  I hate waiting.”

I whistled.  “I wish I was that confident.”

He shot me a concerned look.  “Are you sure you’ll be okay? No offense, but if you couldn’t read that sign…”

“Don’t worry,” I assured him.  “They’re giving me the test in _hiragana_.  I’m okay with that, at least.”

“That’s good.  They assign seats by last name, so we’re probably going to be sitting near each other.  Just give me a signal if you need help.”

“That’s illegal, isn’t it?” I asked.  Light only laughed in response.

We made it to the hall and climbed a flight of stairs to get to the test room.  We then wished each other luck (though I knew neither of us needed it) and split up, Light to his seat and me to the front of the room to speak to the examiner.  He was expecting me, and handed me a stack of _hiragana_ -marked papers before directing me to a separate desk against the wall, away from the rows of lecture benches that held the other prospective students.  I heard a chorus of curious whispers as I took my seat, marveling at the foreigner.  I ignored them, already in test-taking mode.

Three minutes later, the examiner announced the start of the civics exam, the first of twenty-nine sections.  There was the crackling of two hundred packets opening quickly, followed by the muted scratches of two hundred pencils.  I opened my test more slowly, surveying the question with a lazy calm.  Everything looked not only familiar, but simple.  Too simple – is this really what Japan’s best and brightest were learning these days? I didn’t often feel the gap between my IQ and that of an average person, but now it was barreling into me like a freighter.  I smiled and reached for my pencil.

“You there!” the examiner suddenly called out from somewhere behind me.  “Student #162! Sit properly in your chair!”

I froze.  _No.  No way.  He can’t have. I told him not to._ There was a roaring sound in my ear.  I turned very slowly in my chair and looked in the direction of the voice.  Several others, including Yagami Light, were looking too.  The professor was standing before the student sitting two rows directly behind Light – or rather, crouching in his chair two rows behind Light. L.

I opened my mouth to shout, thought better of it, and returned my shattered attention to my test, clutching my pencil so hard that cracks were snaking across the surface.

-

Eight hours and fifteen sections later, I was dismissed early from the day’s session, as I was obviously barred from taking the English test.  I would return the next day for the final half, along with all the other students – plus one interloper.  As I stalked up the aisle, trying and failing to keep the irritation from my face, I could feel L’s owl-like gaze on me every step of the way.  Light, too, looked up and nodded as I passed his seat, and it was all I could do to smile at him.  My con was compromised, and I had to do what I could to salvage it.

I made it about a hundred yards from campus before breaking down and swearing loudly, frightening a young mother and amusing her school-age son.  _That bastard.  That literal bastard_.  He had just ruined my op.  If Light figured out he was L – no, not even that, if he figured out L and I were friends, then his opinion of me would plummet.  He was a guy who cared about appearances and social norms, of which L figuratively spat in the face on a regular basis.  Mere association would put me in that context, too.  What’s more, even more important than the safety of my con was the safety of my friend.  This was not inviting a couple police officers to a hotel room; this was being out in the open, in public, in the presence of a mass murderer who would live nothing more than to take out the last line of defense against his reign of terror.  The longer L stayed out here, the more danger he was in. 

That thought made me afraid, and that fear made me angry.  I paced to and fro for a few minutes, spewing expletives under my breath, until I calmed down enough to remember my phone.  I pulled it out of my purse and turned it on to see one missed call.  My heart flipped – was it Naomi? No, an unfamiliar number with a California area code.  I let out another expletive for good measure, then jumped as the phone buzzed in my hand.  It was the same number, so I answered the phone in English. 

“Hello, is this Casey Watson?” a gruff voice on the other end asked.

“Speaking.”

“This is James Carter, the warden of the Atascadero State Hospital.  Ma’am, you’re listed as the emergency contact for one Beyond Birthday, correct?”

The world ground to a halt.  Pedestrians around me seemed to disappear.  I felt my pulse pound through the old wound in my gut, and I put a hand on my stomach in an attempt to still it.  “Was it a heart attack?” I asked, sounding far calmer than I actually was. 

The warden did not seem surprised at my question; this must have been becoming routine for him, as it was for the rest of the world.  “We won’t know for sure until the autopsy, but yes, it appears so.” He paused out of respect for me.  “As his contact, shall we release the remains to you, or do you have another preference?”

“What? Oh…I-I’m out of the country, I won’t be back for a long time…um, if there’s some standard procedure for unclaimed bodies, you can go ahead and do that.  He won’t mind.”

“Understood.  I’m sorry for your loss.”

I hung up without answering, put my phone away, and started walking.  I didn’t really have a destination.  My wound was still pulsing, so I put my other hand on it as well, making me look as seasick as I felt.

Despite the fact that Beyond Birthday had been a big factor in who I was today, I had hardly thought about him since his capture.  He was just one more faceless adversary among the hundreds of thousands I’d already overcome, a means to my end as L’s partner.  We’d practically grown up together, but the impact on my childhood was almost negligible.   Even now, I wasn’t sad he was dead, and I felt no gratification or surge of justice either.  I simply felt the weight of B’s wasted potential, swallowed up by pointless vengeance.  And there was something else: the overwhelming sense that I was just a hair’s breadth away from going down the same path he had, like the shock of seeing a bullet pass just by me.  How easy it would have been to stew in my misfortunes as he had. 

Death must have been a relief for him, I decided.  He must have lived these past two years in constant pain, both physical and emotional.  I wondered if he was happy at all as he was going down. 

Gradually, I became aware again, and I realized that I could no longer see the campus.  In fact, I had no idea where I was.  It seemed I had been taking turns blindly.  I was by a street, though, and a black Mercedes was inching along right beside me, oblivious to the honks and shouts of other drivers.  It would have been seriously creepy had I not recognized the car.  I stopped and turned to face it; it stopped as well, and one of the backseat windows rolled down. 

After another second, L poked his face out the window.  “Are you all right?”

“Uh-huh.” My voice still had that eerily calm tone, despite my self-assertions that I was not mourning B’s death.

“Are you angry with me?” L pressed.  “I assure you, I had a good reason for coming to the university.”

Oh, right.  I guess I was.  I tried to summon some ire, but the kindling didn’t spark.  “Maybe later.” L’s face withdrew into the car, and I opened the door and climbed inside.  Once I was buckled in and we were moving again, I said, “I just got off the phone with Atascadero Hospital.  Kira killed B this morning.”

L had no visible reaction, and his voice sounded the same as always when he responded.  “Is that so? I’m surprised it took him this long.  The BB murders must not have received much press attention outside of the United States.  You have the light, Watari,” he added.  The light was indeed green, but we were just sitting there, drawing more ire from the other drivers.

Mr. Wammy jumped in his seat.  “So I do.  Excuse me.” His foot fell on the acceleration pedal and we flew forward with screeching tires.  I was flung back against the seat, and L nearly toppled over onto my lap, his grip on the door handle the only thing keeping him upright.

“I-I’m sorry!” Mr. Wammy gasped.  He slowed down to a safer pace.  “I had no idea it would have gone so quickly – I wasn’t even thinking –”

“Watari,” L interrupted gently, “you are not responsible for Beyond Birthday’s death.  The blame lies with Kira, and with Kira alone.”

Mr. Wammy sighed.  “I know that.  I only…I was his guardian.  If I had done more for him – if I had not abandoned the House in the state it was in – then perhaps B would have taken a different path.”

“No way,” I said almost before he’d finished speaking.  “L needed you more than we did.  And the House and the kids in it – Mello, Near, all of them – wouldn’t be so successful today if we hadn’t worked out those bugs in the prototype Program.  There was no avoiding it.”

“I agree,” L chimed in.  “What’s more, regardless of the effect of the House, B would still end up as he did.  The man was ill; the House might have exacerbated it, but did not cause it.  No other participant after him killed in cold blood – even Zebedee Hartwell was sane enough not to dirty his hands himself.  Nor have any committed suicide like Amir Moez, who was also ill.  The choice was theirs alone to make, and not the result of anything we have done.” He gestured to me.  “The proof sits behind you.  Casey is of sound mind – sound enough to know when a situation is dangerous for her and when she ought to escape it – and thus she was not driven to death or murder.”

“That’s wrong, Ryuzaki.”

He turned back toward me, frowning.  “Oh? Have you murdered someone without telling me?” Mr. Wammy, too, was looking curiously at me through the rearview mirror.

I took a moment to gather my thoughts, and then began.  “I didn’t survive the House or end up not being a bad guy because I didn’t have it in me.  I’m pretty sure – I’m completely sure I would have ended up like A or B if I’d stayed.  I want to say I’d be closer to A than B, but I honestly have no idea.” I looked straight into L’s eyes.  “The thing I had that they didn’t was you.”

Now he looked bewildered.  “How did that help you?”

“You seriously can’t see it?” He shook his head.  “Ryuzaki, you caught the guy who killed my father.  You hate being social, but talked to me every day.  Even though it was dangerous for you, you were my friend when no one else was, and you even trusted me enough to tell me your name.” I could feel my eyes grow misty, so I looked down at my clasped hands, blinking rapidly.  “You’re the only good thing in my life, and spending even a little time with you made all the bad stuff worth it.  That’s how I made it this far.”

There was a long stretch of silence.  When the danger had passed, I looked back up.  Mr. Wammy was watching the road again, but his reflection was smiling.  I turned to L, only to see that he had turned away.  I couldn’t see his face, but I could see the tip of his ear peeking out through the mess of hair.  It was crimson.

“Ryuzaki – are you blushing?”

He shook his head so quickly his ear became a red blur.

“Then look at me.”

He shook his head even harder.

I giggled, my insides unfrozen again.  “Aw, Ryuzaki, there’s no need to be embarrassed.  I was just telling the truth, that’s all.  Or has nobody ever –”

“Tell me about Yagami Light,” he interrupted, his voice a bit hoarse.

“Don’t change the subject! I’m asking if you’ve ever heard anything like that from –”

“Is Yagami Light Kira?”

I sighed.  “Fine, have it your way.  But you’ve just reminded me, I’m incredibly pissed at you.”

“I can live with that.”

He didn’t look at me the whole way back to the hotel.


	21. 4.5: The Sign of Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death Note (c) 2003 Ohba Tsugumi and Obata Takeshi. Another Note: The Los Angeles BB Murder Cases (c) 2006 Nisio Isin. All rights reserved.

**Chapter 5: The Sign of Two**

-April 5th, 2004-

“Is that seriously what you’re wearing?” I asked.

“I always wear this,” L replied.  _This_ , of course, being his white long-sleeved shirt and blue jeans, of which I was convinced he must have owned a hundred identical pairs.  Never in my life had I seen him wear anything else.  At least this time I’d managed to force him into some dirty Converse, though he’d been immovable when it came to socks.

“Yeah, which is fine for sitting in a nice, safe hotel room all day.  Whereas if you’re making a speech in front of hundreds of people, it’s appropriate to dress up a little.” 

L’s eyes narrowed.  “I’d rather not.”

“And _I’d_ rather you didn’t come at all, but I’m not getting what I want, am I? C’mon, it’s bad enough you’ll be on stage with everyone looking at you, but you’ll draw too much attention wearing that!”

“As you say, everyone will already be looking at me.  My clothes will not change that.  And at any rate, I want Yagami Light’s attention on me.  Otherwise, my investigation won’t be as effective.”

I opened my mouth to retort, but closed it again almost immediately, recognizing a dead horse when I saw it.  “Ugh, fine.  But don’t come crying to me if the other kids pick on you on your first day of school.”

It was the day of the opening ceremony for To-Oh University, and the two of us were getting ready in our most recent hotel suite.  L and I had both been accepted, of course, as had Yagami Light.  In fact, L and Light had both received perfect scores in all subjects on the entrance exam, something that had apparently never happened in the school’s history.  As a result, the two of them would give the opening address as co-freshmen representatives.  Incidentally, I had missed only three questions on the entrance exam, something that amused the ever-competitive L to no end.  Naturally, he ignored me when I tried to point out that his presence in the testing hall had angered and distracted me.  For someone so keen to point out how great my potential was, he took a little too much pleasure in pointing out my mistakes.

L frowned, a finger at his lips.  “Are you really that upset about my clothes?” he asked around the nail he was chewing.

“I’m upset that you’re going at all!” I snapped.  I was trying to button up my blazer, but the buttons kept slipping out of my trembling fingers, doing nothing to improve my mood.  Finally, I gave up, contenting myself with looking only semi-presentable.  Better than L, anyway.  “Why the hell do you feel the need to throw yourself into danger at every chance you get?”

“I could ask the same of you,” L replied.  “You’re far more reckless than I am when it comes to personal safety.  I’ve lost count of how many bullet wounds you’ve sustained in our short time working together – and believe me, that’s not something that happens often.”

I rolled my eyes.  “Point taken, but our situations are totally different.  If _you_ die out there, not only will the worldwide crime rate rise by at least seventy percent, but the severity of those crimes will get worse and worse indefinitely.  But if _I_ die, nothing happens.  The world goes on spinning.  Your life is way more important than mine, so you need to be more –”

“Never say that again,” L said in a low, intense voice.  His expression grew hard and dark, and there was genuine anger flashing in his eyes, something I had never seen before.  “I forbid it.”

I blinked at him, startled.  “Uh…okay…sorry.”

“Apology accepted.”  In an instant, he was back to his normal, unruffled self.  The speed of the change startled me even more.  “And to answer your question, the reason why I’m joining you in your face-to-face investigation is because it would be detrimental to the case if I did not.  You are a brilliant detective, Casey, but you are irrationally frightened of your own deductive powers.  You do not allow yourself to act at your full potential, and thus you may deliberately ignore crucial details for the sake of comfortable stagnation.”

“…Are you trying to make me punch you? Because I will.  Right in the teeth.”

He wisely shuffled a few steps backwards.  “That was not my intention.  I am only trying to explain why I believe my presence is crucial to the investigation.  I have no such mental blockades and will be able to pick up on the things that you miss.  Furthermore,” he added, overriding the beginnings of my comeback, “I am not worried about my safety, for reasons which shall become apparent to you in due time.  If you are so concerned, then all you need to do is protect me, right? I have complete faith that you can do that much at least.”

“But – oh, forget it.”  It wasn’t like I couldn’t see his point.  He was right about me holding back, though I couldn’t agree that I was acting irrationally.  And it wasn’t like I’d ever been able to stop him once his mind had been made up.  This time, it seemed, would be no different.  “Could you at least put on some socks? You’re going to get a fungus.”

“Not if I don’t sweat, and I have no plans to exert myself that strongly.”

I had half a mind to call up Mr. Wammy – he was the only one who could make L act like a functioning human being – but there was no time for a proper lecture.  If we didn’t leave within the next five minutes, we would miss the ceremony.  So I bowed to the inevitable and headed out into the main room, L at my heels.  “All right, gang, we’re off,” I said to the Taskforce, who were sitting around the dining table surrounded by the stacks of papers the FBI had provided us.  “Don’t solve the case without us.”

“Have a good trip!” Matsuda returned, chipper as always in spite of the circumstances.

Aizawa smacked the back of his head, making him yelp in pain, before turning to us.  “This investigation of yours – just what are you doing out there without us?”

L spoke up before I could.  “We are following something of a long-shot theory, one which requires my presence.  I apologize for abandoning you all, but I can assure you that this is absolutely crucial.  Right, Casey?” I mumbled a half-hearted assent.  “Right.  In the meantime, I’d like you to continue looking over the case notes of the other eleven agents, just in case our current theory doesn’t pan out.  We’re counting on you all.”

They nodded, to a man – even Aizawa – unable to summon up enough energy to argue.  This was now the fifth month since Kira’s first appearance, and despite working non-stop, we had made almost no progress – or to be more accurate, L had made some progress, but due to the nature of our suspect, he could not share it with the rest of the Taskforce, let alone the public.  The long, hard hours were taking their toll on everyone.  Yagami looked worst of all, his face sporting several new lines and his once-dark hair now liberally streaked with gray.  He looked like he was about to fall out of his seat, and yet he shut down all suggestions that he rest.  His pride must’ve taken a real hit during the surveillance of his family, and he seemed eager to repair it by finding the “real” killer. 

My heart sank to look at him.  _I’m sorry, Yagami_ -san _.  I hope with all my heart that I can spare you what comes next_.  If I couldn’t, though, then that was that.  Personal feelings meant nothing in a case like this.  I wouldn’t be pulling any punches with Light just because he was the son of someone I considered a friend.  And yet, for the first time, I hoped that L and I were just being paranoid, and that we had gotten it wrong this time around.

-

In an attempt to disassociate myself from L as much as possible in Light’s mind, Mr. Wammy dropped me off alone two blocks from campus.  It might as well have been two miles, as I was wearing heels for the first time in years, but I made it to campus just five minutes before the start of the entrance ceremony.  Actually, I appeared to be right on time, as I immediately spotted Yagami Light loitering by the auditorium door, looking sharp in a fitted navy suit.

He spotted me, too, and waved me over with a smile on his face.  “Hey, you were accepted! Congratulations.”

“Same to you,” I answered.  “Thank God the waiting’s finally over.  I thought I’d never get my results.”

“Yeah, me too.”

Something odd suddenly happened: Light’s gaze suddenly flicked up and to the right, like he was looking for something behind him without turning his head, and for a split second, his eyes narrowed in a glare.  Before I had even registered it, though, he was looking at me and smiling again.  _What the hell was that? There’s nothing behind him, so what was he looking at?_

“You okay, Yagami- _kun_?” I asked.

“Hmm? Oh, yeah, sorry.” His cheeks turned the faintest shade of pink.  “I’m a little nervous, actually.  I’m one of the freshman representatives this year, and I have to give a speech.”

I whistled.  “Wow, impressive.  Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll be fine.” I checked my watch; three minutes to go.  “Yikes, we better get in there.  Don’t want to miss your big moment!”

We entered the auditorium, which was packed almost to the brim with students and faculty, and split up, promising to meet up after the ceremony.  I went up to an open seat on the right-hand side of the auditorium, right next to the wall and five rows back.  From there, I had a good vantage point of Light’s assigned seat at front of the auditorium.  L was already crouching in his own chair, drawing curious looks from everyone around him.  Light’s eye twitched as he looked at him, but he took his seat with dignity.

The ceremony lasted about an hour, with the freshman representatives’ speech about three-quarters of the way through.  Light and L stood up on stage together, first the former and then the latter reading a short statement.  It was your typical first-day-of-school tripe, all about starting a new chapter of our lives or whatever, nearly putting me to sleep.  No one else was listening, either; they were too busy whispering to each other about the two representatives, both alone and as a comparative set.

After the speeches ended, the two of them bowed (or slouched, as the case may be) and started back to their seats.  As they went down the steps at the far end of the stage, something happened.  I saw L lean in close and mutter something in Light’s ear.  Light, in turn, stumbled slightly on the last step, his face suddenly pale.  It wasn’t an accident; clearly, L had said something to rattle him.

I felt the blood drain out of my own face and stuck my hand in my purse, rifling around for my phone.  Trying to be as discreet as possible, I texted “What the hell did you do?!” to L without pulling my phone out of my purse.  I saw L jump as his phone vibrated, but since he was surrounded by faculty, he couldn’t answer.  Or at least, that would be the case if something like social etiquette mattered to L – in reality, he probably just wasn’t interested in answering.  I stifled the urge to curse and started waiting.

The entrance ceremony ended shortly afterwards.  The faculty at the front of the room, along with the two freshmen representatives, filed out first, the rest of the students forbidden to move until they had left.  By the time I managed to fight my way through the crowds and out the door, almost fifteen minutes had past.  Fortunately, I spotted L right away; not so fortunately, he was speaking to a stiff-looking Light.  I hurried over, praying to whomever would listen that I wasn’t too late.

I was.

“Hello, Casey,” L said as I approached.  “Have you met Yagami- _kun_? I think you’d like him.”

Light turned to face me slowly, face pale and expression hard.  “Do you two know each other?” he asked in a too-calm voice.

My smile was sheepish and did little to ease my panic.  “Um, yeah.  This is Ryuga Hideki.” This latest alias was the name of a popular Japanese male idol and a further safeguard against Kira.  “He and I are…uh –”

“Colleagues, of a sort,” L finished.  I could’ve strangled him.

Light’s eyes widened.  “Colleagues,” he repeated.  Now his eyes were narrowing to slits.  “So, Casey- _san_.  You’re a detective, too?”

I leaned to the side so that I could gape at L directly.  “What.  Did.  You.  _Do_?” I hissed.

“I told him who I am,” L said, as unconcerned as if he was commenting on the weather.  “There was no point in keeping it a secret.”

Miraculously, I remained composed.  “You, I’ll deal with later.” I straightened up and smiled thinly at Light.  “Right, well, here’s how it is.  I’m this one’s partner and a special consultant for the Kira case.  I’m here at To-Oh as part of the investigation.  Early data indicates that Kira was a third year in high school last winter.”

Light’s eyes didn’t waver.  “The only reason you would be here is to investigate a suspect.  Meaning me.”

There was no emergency exit on this one.  I struggled to spin it the best way possible.  “Sort of.  The Taskforce came up with a certain set of conditions, and you just happened to fit them.  All I’m doing is vetting you so I can rule you out.  It’s not that I actually think you’re Kira.”

“I do, though,” L piped up.

Light closed his eyes and slowly let out a breath, visibly quelling his indignation.  Then, with all the dignity in the world, he walked off with his head held high.  Only his hands, balled into trembling fists, betrayed his rage.

I was right there with him.  “What the fuck, man?” I snarled at L.  “What the ACTUAL fuck?!”

L, damn him, was as unflappable as ever.  “Before I answer, shall we get in the car? I doubt you would want to jeopardize your operation by causing a scene.” He was right on both counts – Mr. Wammy’s car had pulled up to the sidewalk, and there were quite a few people giving me odd, startled looks.

“Hmph.” I stormed over to the car, got into the backseat, and slammed the door without even waiting for L to follow.

“Rough day?” Mr. Wammy asked from the back seat.

“Your golden boy is goddamned impossible,” I growled back.

“Language, Casey, please.  But yes, he can be, rather.”

The door opened and L climbed in next to me.  He assumed his usual crouch and pulled the door closed with thumb and forefinger. 

“Seatbelt, Ryuzaki,” Mr. Wammy prompted him.  Obediently, he buckled up with the modified belt that accommodated his crouch.  “And what have you done now? Poor Casey looks ready to hit the roof.”

“I revealed myself to Yagami Light, in the hopes that he would grow panicked enough to make a mistake.”

Mr. Wammy stared at him through the rearview mirror.  As Light had just done, he composed himself with a deep breath.  “And did he?”

“Not to any immediate effect.”

“Were there other reasons for doing this? Reasons that will help you solve the case?”

“I believe so, yes.”

He nodded, turned his attention to the road, and started driving.  “Then I’ll trust you made the correct decision.”

“Thank you, Watari.” He turned to me.  “Why can’t you be like that?”

I snapped my head around to stare out the window, arms folded tightly across my chest.  “I’m not even talking to you.”

“Excellent, then you can listen unencumbered.  My hope is not only that Yagami Light will grow paranoid, but that he will also take advantage of an acquaintance with me.  In order to keep up his ruse of innocence, he must maintain his justice-loving persona.  An innocent Yagami Light would offer his services to the Taskforce, as he has done on other cases in the past.  I would accept, of course.  If Yagami Light is Kira, then I can observe him freely in that situation; if he is not, then his intelligence would be a great asset in catching the true killer.  So you see, the risk is well worth it.”

“Even worth your life?” I countered.

“As I believe I mentioned before, if it means capturing Kira, I don’t mind sacrificing everything.  And I thought you weren’t talking to me.”

“Fuck off, Ryuzaki.”

“ _Casey_.”

“Sorry, Watari.”

-

-April 18th, 2004-

Since L wanted to work in the field so badly, I let him.  There was no point babysitting him if he was just going to ignore everything I said.  I bowed out of college life and returned to the Taskforce, going through the motions of looking for other leads.  We wouldn’t find any, of course – at least, none as strong as Yagami Light – but at least my biggest worry with this job was how I was going to fend off Matsuda’s endless babbling. 

Or rather, that was my biggest worry for all of two days.  During a routine check-in with his superior at the NPA, Chief Yagami collapsed, suffering a massive heart attack.  He survived, which meant it was not the work of Kira; unfortunately, it seemed the cause was stress, brought on not just by the investigation itself but by my and L’s suspicions of his beloved son.  Even though my actions had been in the best interest of the investigation, I still felt incredibly guilty for putting Yagami and his family at risk.  I found myself visiting his hospital room on an almost daily basis, briefing him on any miniscule progress we made and trying to convince him I didn’t suspect Light as much as he thought I did.  Yagami didn’t believe me, of course, but he seemed glad of the company.  I also officially made acquaintance of his wife and daughter, who were keeping almost constant vigil.  Sachiko was understandably wary of this young and bizarre foreigner forcing her sick husband to think about work, but Sayu was quite taken with me, asking me all sorts of questions about America and begging me to tutor her in English.  I agreed, partially to keep my mind occupied and partially as atonement for peeping on her in the shower.

This lasted for two weeks, and then, unbelievably, things got worse.  At 6:00 on the 18th, L and the Taskforce were alerted to a suspicious broadcast on Tokyo’s trash variety channel, Sakura TV.  Supposedly, Kira had sent them a video tape – an amateurish production featuring garbled, synthesized audio and blurred letters spelling out “Kira” in L’s particular font – to air on that exact date at that exact time.  We dismissed it as yet another of the network’s hoaxes for more ratings – until an anti-Kira newscaster died as predicted by the live-streaming tape.  Our cease-and-desist phone calls to the station went unanswered, and in desperation, Ukita went to the station in person to forcibly stop the broadcast.  Then he stopped answering his phone.  When the other news stations got their cameras on the scene, we saw a limp corpse slumped in front of the station’s entrance.  It was Ukita.

“Fucking hell!” I swore and rushed for the door.

“Don’t,” L said from his armchair, as infuriatingly calm as ever.  “If you go there, it is likely you will die as well.  Ukita- _san_ ’s false ID was useless; it is very likely Kira now has the power to kill just by looking at one’s face.”

“I figured,” I replied, slipping into my jacket.  “I just won’t let him see my face, then.”

“Casey –”

“I can’t watch people die when there’s something I can do to stop it!” Before he could respond, I was out the door.  I heard Aizawa shouting and making moves to follow me, but I left the hotel alone.  L must have been a bit more successful with the rest of the Taskforce. 

My motorcycle was parked in the long-term section of the hotel garage. Knowing I couldn’t rely on Mr. Wammy to drive me separately from L, I’d bought it a couple weeks after Naomi went missing.  She had ridden hers everywhere in Los Angeles, and I liked to think it was helping to keep her memory alive.  More importantly for the immediate situation, it required a full-face helmet to ride in Japan.  With that, I’d have a degree of safety from Kira.  I stuck the helmet over my head, hopped on the bike, started the ignition, and drove off.

Even while speeding and weaving in and out of traffic, it took me ten minutes to reach the station.  Too late for the two additional bodies, police officers who had pulled up to the station to stop the broadcast themselves.  Several cameras were rolling across the street, but the film crews had fled, no doubt fearing for their safety.  I pulled up out of the cameras’ views and, after only the briefest hesitation, charged over to the bodies to check pulses.  No use – all three were indeed dead, faces screwed up in the agony of heart failure.  Poor Ukita – my colleague, my ally, even something resembling my friend – looked the most pained.  He must have suffered incredibly as he went down, from the defeat as much as the heart attack. 

“I’m sorry,” I whispered to him, closing his blank eyes with gloved hands.  “I promise you’ll be the last one of us he beats.”

The time for mourning properly would come soon enough, but first there was work to be done.  Ukita had died before the other stations’ film crews had arrived, meaning that Kira was not watching on TV, but in the area.  He would need to be at a good vantage point to see the faces of anyone who approached the front entrance.  I glanced beyond the glass doors into the Sakura TV lobby.  There was only one security guard inside, who recoiled as I turned my head toward him, sensing rather than seeing my animosity. 

_No, not him.  He’s too exposed there, the cameras are picking up his every move.  And those bodies are freaking him out too badly.  Kira would be over it by now.  Upper floors? No, angle’s not good enough…best viewpoint would be…_

I looked across the street, over the line of cameras.  Looming directly before the station was a twelve-story apartment building, still under construction according to the sign out front.  No one ought to be there at this time of night, so no one would accidentally stumble upon a squatter.  It could work as a vantage point, but it was still quite some distance to see across, especially from an upper floor.  He’d need binoculars.  I went back to my motorcycle, grabbed a flashlight out of the rear cargo holder, and started shining the beam at each window one by one, looking for –

 _There_.  A stronger glint than the others that disappeared as I held the beam in place.  Kira had just dropped his binoculars and was making a break for it.

I dashed across the street as fast as I could, thankful the station was too dangerous for there to be traffic.  _Where will he go? Front entrance? Too obvious.  Side entrance? Doubt there is one unlocked.  Back it is!_ I slipped down the side alley and rounded the corner to the rear exit, just in time to see a figure in a ski mask coming out the door. 

“Stop right there!” I shouted, pulling my gun from its holster and aiming it square between the eye holes of the mask.  Unexpectedly, the figure obeyed, stunned into immobility.  My eyes absorbed everything in half a second: wide, scared brown eyes, a short and skinny physique, the swell of breasts beneath an oversized black sweater.  A young woman, maybe even a teenager.  Not Yagami Light.

“So there are two of you now,” I murmured, removing the safety on my pistol.  The figure shrank back as though struck.

And then my helmet started to come off.

I have no idea how it happened; there was no one behind me, and yet the helmet was being pulled off my head as if by magic.  I dropped my gun and clamped both hands down on the top of it, feeling incredible resistance despite seeing nothing.  Taking advantage, the second Kira tore off down the alley.

“Stop!” I screamed and started to run after her, hands still holding my helmet in place. 

The pressure disappeared for a moment, but before I could feel relief, something hard and heavy slammed into the top of my head, and I crumpled to the ground.  I had just enough awareness to press my special belt buckle twice before passing out.

-

“Oh, hey, she’s waking up! Casey- _san_ , can you hear me?” That was Matsuda’s voice.

Slowly, I opened my eyes, wincing at the blinding artificial light.  It took me a moment to recognize my surroundings: I was back in the hotel room, lying on the couch with the Taskforce around me.  L crouched in an armchair, facing away from me.

“What happened?” I asked in a slurred voice.  My head felt like it had been stuffed with cotton, and my pulse pounded painfully through a lump at the crown of my head.

“Watari found you,” Aizawa explained.  He looked pale and shaky, probably more due to his friend’s death than my predicament.  “He said there was a tool box upended next to you – it must have fallen off the roof onto your head.”

Had there been anyone up there? I was so sure there wasn’t, but my head was spinning too much for me to remember properly.  “I think I have a concussion.”

Aizawa nodded.  “Watari’s on his way with a doctor.  The chief needs to be looked at, too.”

“The chief?” I echoed, barely understanding.  “The chief’s at the hospital.”

They explained that after I had gone off camera at the station, an armored police truck had crashed through the front doors.  Yagami was driving it, having seen the broadcast at the hospital.  He had made his way to the studio, stopped the broadcast, and confiscated the tapes.  The police, who by that time had fully mobilized and had formed a barricade around the station, then escorted him here.

“Wow,” I croaked when they had finished.  “I hope I’m that badass when I grow up.” They murmured in agreement.  “Can you all go check on him for me? I need to talk to Ryuzaki for a moment.” They protested, but after I assured them I was fine, they trooped into the bedroom where Yagami was apparently recovering.

I sat up slowly, reeling from dizziness, and turned to L, who had not moved or spoken the entire time.  “I saw Kira.  She – it’s a girl – was running out of the building across the street.  Listen, since Light isn’t involved and this Kira had different powers, I think there may be –”

I broke off, stunned into silence.  L had shifted position to face me and was finally looking at me – except he was glaring at me.  _Glaring_ , like he genuinely wanted to murder me.  I had never seen that look on his face before, directed at me or otherwise.  “Um…Ryuzaki…?”

“I told you to stay here,” L said.  His voice was low and trembling with suppressed rage.

“Uh…yeah, you did.  I ignored you.”

“You disobeyed a direct order from your employer.  _Why_?”

I jumped at the malice in his tone.  “I-I had to stop the broadcast. I couldn’t let anyone else die.”

Two crimson spots darkened L’s cheeks.  “And what if _you_ had died? What if this Kira you saw had seen your face? What if you weren’t wearing a helmet when that tool box fell on you?”

“Well…that would’ve been it, I guess.”

L leapt to his feet, looming over me like a great wall.  His hands were balled into fists, and the red spots were beginning to spread about his face.  “How can you be so nonchalant about this? All these years I’ve known you, and you’ve never belittled the value of human life, and yet you cast aside your own without a second thought? I knew you were reckless, but this is downright hypocritical!”

I could feel anger of my own starting to boil up and burn through the fog in my head.  “Whoa, hold up.  It’s my _job_ to go out in the field, to risk my life so you don’t have to! That is the whole point of me!”

“There is a vast difference between risking your life and throwing it away!”

“Oh, yeah? Remind me which one you did at the university.”

“The two situations are completely different.  Yagami Light knew that if I died after revealing myself to him, he would be suspected immediately.  He’s far too smart to take the risk, and even if he wasn’t, I had countermeasures in place.  Unlike _you_ , who stormed the castle with no means of protecting yourself!”

We were both shouting now.  The others must be hearing this, but I was too mad to care.  “Yeah, you’re right, it’s different – it’s _worse_! How many times do I have to tell you, if you die, then that’s it, bad guys win.  If I die –”

“Finish that sentence and I’ll kick you.” He looked like he meant it, too.

To my frustration, I found myself instinctively shying away from him.  “For God’s sake, weren’t you just saying the other day that you don’t mind making sacrifices? Where’s this bullshit coming from?  Just cause we’re friends –”

Fresh anger flashed in L’s eyes.  “Do you know the reason I went to To-Oh with you? Not the pitiful excuse I gave you, but the true one?” Caught off guard, I shook my head.  “After I left the House, I noticed a near-twenty percent drop in my deductive abilities – nothing life-threatening, but enough to make a difference.  I recreated my previous conditions as best I could, but there was one factor I couldn’t replicate – your presence.  Naturally, I concluded that I could not operate at my full potential without you, which is why I sought you out after the Detective War.”

“O-Oh.” I wasn’t sure how to feel about that.  On the one hand, it sounded like he only wanted me around to ensure he was operating at full capacity.  On the other hand, to have such a profound effect on him…

“Now, bear in mind that I observed those effects within a few days of our separation, and that they continued for the nine years we were apart.  What do you suppose would have happened to me if you hadn’t returned tonight? What if, when the cameras were rolling again, it wasn’t just Ukita- _san_ ’s body, but yours lying on the –”

He broke off and looked away, his breathing labored.  That’s when I noticed it for the first time – L was shaking badly, and not from anger.  He looked scared.  He had always been so flat and emotionless, but he was still human.  He could angry, sad, or scared as easily as I could.  Just because he’d never shown it, I’d assumed he didn’t worry about me the way I worried about him.  Apparently I was mistaken.

After a moment, L turned away, still and calm once more.  “Raising my voice was uncalled for.  I’m sorry.” The voice in question had grown hoarse from overuse.

I shook my head, making myself dizzy again.  “No.  No, I’m sorry.  I didn’t realize I was making you worry.”

“That is precisely your problem.  You think so little of yourself that you imagine no one else can think of you any better.  You’re wrong.” He paused.  “The doctor should be here soon.  You should rest.” He started shuffling toward the door, but then stopped and looked back over his shoulder.  “Incidentally, I will not be returning to the university.  I have a – a newfound appreciation for your prospective.”

“Yeah, good…Ryuzaki, we’re still friends, right?”

“Of course,” he replied without hesitation.  “I am still angry with you, though.” Before I could respond, he left the room, leaving me with my headaches and heartaches.


	22. 4.6: Stepping Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for 200 hits!
> 
> Death Note (c) 2003 Ohba Tsugumi and Obata Takeshi. Another Note: The Los Angeles BB Murder Cases (c) 2006 Nisio Isin. All rights reserved.

**Chapter 6: Stepping Out**

-May 21st, 2004-

I was indeed suffering from a concussion, and as a result, L suspended my work on the Taskforce for over a month.  I didn’t need that much time to recover, and told him so loudly and often; he ignored me, perhaps enacting vengeance for making him angry.  So I waited, first tossing in bed and then pacing the floor, for his wrath to be appeased.

In the meantime, the case continued.  L agreed with my hypothesis that there were now two separate Kiras, as did Yagami Light, who had voluntarily joined the Taskforce part-time after his father recovered.  Together, we determined that the Second Kira revered the First, and that all her actions up till now had been for the purpose of meeting her idol.  The Taskforce sent their own video to Sakura TV (the contents of which composed by Light), claiming that it was from the real Kira.  The station aired the tape as ordered, and while the First Kira didn’t take the bait, the Second did, sending a response within a matter of days.  In a stroke of luck, this tape mentioned terms that would be known only to the two Kiras: “the Eyes,” which was most likely the power to kill with just a face, and “Shinigami,” which meant absolutely nothing to me.  L, however, seemed to find significance in that term, as he lost enough composure to fall out of his chair as soon as he heard it. 

“You can’t be serious,” I chastised him when we were alone.  “You can’t possibly think Shinigami are real.”

“Can’t I?” he responded.  “Up until now, Kira and his powers could not be explained by any natural law.  This offers an explanation, odd as it may seem at first.”

“Why would a Shinigami kill criminals? Why would it only be able to kill if it had a human’s name and face?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea, but I will ask it as soon as I catch it.”

“And how do you expect to catch a supernatural monster? Much less charge it with murder and try it in court?”

“With your help, of course.”

I did not believe in Shinigami.  I thought the whole idea was superstitious nonsense, a relic of a bygone era in which the logic of modern medicine did not exist to explain away sudden death.  But if L, the world’s greatest detective, put stock in theory, then by definition, it was a theory worth exploring.  And then there was the matter of my helmet coming off seemingly by itself, of the toolbox flying off the roof to hit me seemingly of its own accord…

“Your mantra about believing an improbable truth has never been more relevant,” L said quietly.  “I would ask that you indulge me and follow your own advice.”

So, for the moment, I did.

-

After seventeen days with no contact, the Second Kira sent another message, this time in the form of a diary from May 2003.  Per instructions, Sakura TV sent it to us for analysis before airing it.  By all accounts, it looked like a normal diary depicting mundane day-to-day life, with the exception of the last entry for May 30th: “My friend and I confirmed our _Shinigami_ at the Giants game at the Tokyo Dome.” The same game was on the same date this year, so it was safe to assume this was the Second Kira setting up a meeting with the first…unless she wasn’t as stupid as she seemed.  In which case, one of the other two locations – Aoyama to show off a new notebook on the 22 nd, or Shibuya to shop for summer clothes on the 24th – might be the real meeting place.  We decided that Light and Matsuda would go undercover to investigate those places on those days, while the NPA would install extra security cameras and send out plainclothes officers to back them up.

“I want to go, too,” I said to L.

“Out of the question,” he responded immediately through a mouthful of strawberry shortcake.

In retaliation, I swiped the strawberry off the top of the cake and stuffed it in my mouth.

“Even more out of the question.”

“Ryuzaki, you are killing me with this.  I’m not like you, I can’t stand being cooped up here.  The doctor gave me a clean bill of health, so let me start working again.”

“First, you are not dying. That is an exaggeration.  Second, you told me that you spoke to the Second Kira.  It is possible that she will recognize your voice, and since you won’t have a helmet this time –”

“I don’t have to talk to anyone, I just have to be there.  Look, the Second Kira is more powerful than the first one.  She can kill you without knowing your name.  If I were the original Kira, I would definitely be trying to find the new Kira and get her on my side.  And if you’re right, and Yagami Light turns out to be Kira, that’s exactly what he’ll be trying to do.  Don’t you want someone watching him to make sure that doesn’t happen?”

“I have Matsuda- _san_ for that.”

“…”

“…”

“…”

“I see your point.” He took another bite of cake and looked right into my eyes, the intensity of the effect lessened by his chewing.  “Please try not to die.”

“I always do.”

“Try harder.”

-

Fortunately for me, I wouldn’t be babysitting both Matsuda and a potential mass murderer by myself.  In an attempt to make us seem less suspicious, Light had invited seven of his classmates to tag along with us, three boys and four girls.  As far as they knew, this was just a normal day of sightseeing. 

“This is Casey- _san_ ,” Light introduced me to them.  “She’s an American exchange student at school.  She speaks Japanese really well, so don’t bother trying to talk about her behind her back.” We laughed and exchanged pleasantries.  Light gestured to Matsuda.  “And this is my cousin Taro.  This is his first visit to Tokyo, so let’s show him a good time.  Also, he’s in the market for a girlfriend, so if anyone would like to volunteer…” More laughter.  The girls did not look ready to step up.

Matsuda blushed.  “W-What? Hey, don’t say that!”

We wandered around for a few hours, chatting and going into whichever shop caught our fancy.  I talked and laughed as much as any of the others (and quite a bit more than Light, who looked unusually serious), but all the while, I was scanning the passersby for notebooks.  It was a Wednesday, so there were a lot of college students doing homework or studying in cafes.  Most of them were either alone or in large study groups, but there were a few couples scattered about.  If I saw two notebooks, I would make a note in my phone (pretending to text) of the location and time so that we could review the security tapes later.  If anyone seemed particularly anxious or paranoid, I put a star by their entry.  Beyond that, there was no way for us to zero in on Kira, so we didn’t confront any notebook owners.

As the afternoon wore on, our group members peeled off to study or go to class, leaving Light, Matsuda, and I to finish the investigation on our own.  We spent a little while longer looking around (Light showing particular interest in a jazz club called the Blue Note, though I wasn’t willing to give our suspect that much credit), but Light had class as well, and there was nothing more Matsuda and I could do on our own.  Light headed off to campus, frustrated at our lack of success, while Matsuda and I caught a cab back to the hotel.

“That was fun!” Matsuda said once we were outside the entrance.  “I really enjoyed myself.”

“That’s fine,” I replied, “but you were looking around as well, right? We were there to work, after all.”

“O-Of course I was!”

“Good.  Now come on, they’ll be wanting our report.” I started to head for the doors.

“W-Wait, Casey- _san_!” Matsuda yelped.  “I…I have something to say to you first.”

I turned back around, frowning.  “Okay.  What’s up?” Matsuda was standing up rigidly straight, his face as red as if he had been sunburned.  He was shaking and appeared to be taking deep breaths.  Whatever he wanted to tell me was apparently making him very nervous.

“Casey- _san_ ,” he began haltingly, “I know the thing you want most is to catch Kira – I mean, I want it, too, of course I do – but, um, I was thinking, once we do catch Kira…”

_Uh oh._

“…m-maybe we could do more stuff like this? Not for an investigation, and n-not with a bunch of people around…just the two of us, I mean.” His face, if possible, turned even redder.  “I r-r-really like you, Casey- _san_ , and I want us to –”

I held up my hand so suddenly that the gesture alone stunned Matsuda into silence.  “I’m going to stop you right there, Matsuda- _san_.”

“O-Oh…it’s a no, right?” He visibly deflated, lower lip trembling.  “Yeah, I thought so…you’re too nice and pretty for someone like me to date.  I’ve got no business being your boyfriend.”

I hesitated, the pitiable look on his face making me guilty.  “Don’t say that, Matsuda- _san_ …”

He perked up instantly, grinning.  “So it’s a yes?”

“ _No_.” He wilted again.  “I mean, uh…okay, hear me out.  You’re a really sweet guy, Matsuda- _san_ , and any girl would be lucky to have a guy like you.”

He screwed up his face, looking confused.  “So…yes?”

“No.  I like you a lot, but as a colleague and a friend.  I don’t think of you in the same way you think of me, and you deserve someone who does.  Someone who will love you with everything she has, instead of taking a second choice because her first one didn’t pan out.” I paused, swallowed, and continued.  “That’s what would happen with me.  I love someone else, and even though he’ll never return my feelings, I’d still have him in my heart no matter who I was with.  You deserve better than that.” I bowed low.  “I’m so sorry, Matsuda- _san_.”

He nodded, looking like he was about to cry.  “N-No, I get it…even when you’re rejecting me, you’re thinking about my feelings.  Casey- _san_ , you’re so nice…th-that’s why – why I – uwahhhhh!” He suddenly turned and fled, the sound of his sobs fading after him.

“Aw, jeez…”  I rubbed the back of my neck, self-conscious and guilty.  “What was I supposed to do, shut him down completely? Man…”

-

“You’re late,” L said by way of greeting, not looking up from his half-constructed tower of sugar cubes.

Yagami and Aizawa looked up from their papers (Mogi had been assigned to the NPA headquarters since Light came on, so at least one person would still be alive in case he learned our real names).  “How did it go?” Yagami asked.  He was even grayer than before, but had otherwise made a full recovery.

I tossed my bag into the corner and flopped down on the couch, exhausted in many ways.  “Nothing out of the ordinary.  If the Kiras were there, they outsmarted us.”

“What happened to Light and Matsuda?”

I tensed up.  “Light went to class.”

“And Matsuda?” Aizawa prompted.

“Um…”

Aizawa’s eyes went suddenly wide.  “Oh, damn.  You’re telling me he actually did it?”

“Did what?” L and Yagami asked together.

I sat upright and glowered at Aizawa.  “You _knew_ he was going to do it? Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t think he would actually go through with it!” Aizawa insisted.  “He said he was nervous, so I thought he’d chicken out.”

“Do _wha_ t?” L asked again.

I sighed.  “Matsuda- _san_ asked to be my boyfriend just now.”

L’s head snapped around.  The cube he was holding dropped out of his hand, slamming into the tower and sending the whole thing tumbling to the floor. “ _Matsuda-_ san did?”

“Mm-hmm.”

Yagami let out a deep sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose just above his glasses.  “Oh, for goodness’ sake…Casey- _san_ , I’m sorry one of my men subjected you to that.  It was highly unprofessional.” He bowed.

“Seriously, what’s that moron thinking?” Aizawa added.  “This is the Kira case, dammit.  Show some restraint.”

L’s head tilted to the side.  “Matsuda- _san_ said he was in love with you,” he repeated.

“ _Yes_ , Ryuzaki.”

The tilt wobbled from one angle to the next like that of a bobble-head doll before L finally looked away again.  “That’s rather difficult to picture.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? I’ll have you know I’m extremely lovable.” Aizawa snorted, getting a throw pillow in the face for his trouble. 

“Not that.  The two of you as a couple.  I don’t think you’d benefit much from it, and your IQ would average out to be below that of an ordinary person.”

“Be nice, or I’ll knock the rest of your sugar cubes down.” He shielded the remains of his creation with one hand.  “And obviously I didn’t think it would work, either, so I turned him down.”

“Were you gentle, at least?” Yagami asked.

“As much as I could be, having been _ambushed_.” I glared at Aizawa.  “Apparently, it wasn’t enough, as he ran off crying.”

Yagami sighed again.  “Unbelievable…I’ll go find him.” He excused himself.

Once he had left, L started the painstaking work of reconstructing the tower, dropping every third or fourth cube into his teacup.  “Well, Casey.  You’re the source of a lot of trouble around here, aren’t you?”

The tower collapsed again, courtesy of my second pillow.

-

-May 24th, 2004-

Light was waiting for me outside the train station in Shibuya, by himself this time.  “Hi,” he said as I approached.  “Where’s Matsuda- _san_?”

“He’s, uh, grounded,” I replied.  “Trust me, you don’t want to know,” I added in response to his questioning look.

Matsuda had returned to work yesterday as buoyant as ever, although he had trouble meeting my eyes.  Early on in the day, he had taken me aside, apologized for making me uncomfortable, told me he was grateful I’d let him down so easily, and asked if we could still be friends.  He even wished me luck with the guy I had a crush on.

“Matsuda- _san_ , you are too good for this rotten world,” I had responded, making him blush.  “Of course we’re still friends.” His smile could have powered an energy plant for days.

L, however, did not seem as inclined to forget the incident as Matsuda and I were.  If he acknowledged Matsuda’s presence at all, it was to reprimand him for some half-baked comment.  Occasionally, I caught him staring at Matsuda with the expression he usually reserved for rotten fruit or crushed candy.  When I’d asked him what his deal was, he just gave me an evasive answer about “unprofessionalism” (as if he had any right to talk).  I figured he must have been jealous that I’d declared Matsuda my friend; I was the only friend L had, after all, and his fragile ego must have felt that Matsuda was encroaching on his territory.  Whatever was really going on, it had made him forbid Matsuda’s presence in the Shibuya investigation, which Yagami and Aizawa roundly seconded.

“Weren’t your friends coming today?” I asked Light.

He sighed in exasperation, a perfect imitation of his father.  “Studying.  Our economics professor’s giving an unscheduled test on Monday.”

“Oh, and you feel prepared enough, do you?” I teased.  He shrugged in a way that said, _did you expect anything less?_ “So it’s just the two of us, then,” I added after an awkward pause.

“Looks like it.”

We fell silent, unsure of what to say.  Did L know what he was doing, sending me out without backup? For someone supposedly so concerned about my safety, signing off on me spending the whole day with a serial killer was a pretty substantial oversight.  Not that Light would try anything out in the open like this, surrounded by cameras and undercover cops…unless he knew I’d be thinking like that? All this double thinking was making my head spin.  I wasn’t used to being mentally outmaneuvered.

Light cleared his throat rather loudly.  “So, it’s clothes shopping, right? That will be a lot harder to pin down than holding a notebook.”

“Yeah, I’m not expecting much, but all the same, we shouldn’t slack off.” I started heading for the main road.  “C’mon, let’s get this over with.”

“Want me to hold your purse while you’re trying things on?”

“Very funny.” The way he said it pissed me off.

We hopped from store to store, looking at summer outfits and surreptitiously watching the customers.  For the sake of blending in, I did indeed try a few things on, even buying a nice sky-blue dress.  Light got himself a few new neckties, but as promised, he spent most of the time holding my bag and commenting on my potential choices (with painful accuracy as to whether or not they would look good).  It was almost, dare I say it, like we were a couple going on a date.  The people around us seemed to think so, too; more than one cashier asked how long we’d been together, and a few elderly couples smiled knowingly at us and walked a bit closer to each other, reliving the memories of their youth.  Certainly, it was better than being recognized as police, but the whole situation still made my skin crawl.  I promised myself a long, hot shower when this was over.

The crowd of shoppers started to thin around the lunch hour, so we took a break at a small café off the main street.  I asked for a table in the back and out of the way, nominally to speak freely about the case but mostly to avoid love-struck eyes.  Unfortunately, I couldn’t escape that easily, as our server brought out some candles after taking our order, despite it being in the middle of a sunny summer day.

“I thought it would help the mood a little,” he explained, winking at an embarrassed Light.

“We’re NOT on a date,” I said for the umpteenth time.  Chastised, the waiter scurried off.

“I guess we look cute together,” Light said apologetically.  I scoffed and took a loud slurp of coffee. “So, speaking of which,” Light went on after a moment, “I’ve been wondering, Casey- _san_.  Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Nope.  Don’t want one, either.”

He blinked.  “Really? You’re the first girl who’s ever said that to me.”

“All the girls you’ve talked to have been trying to get into your well-tailored pants.  I’m _really_ against that idea.”

He had the grace – or he was angry enough – to blush.  “Ouch.  Am I that unattractive to you?” He said it in a teasing way, but there was the briefest of flashes in his eyes that told me he was genuinely miffed that the patented Yagami charm was ineffective against me.

I smiled over the rim of my cup.  “Not really, but it’s my policy never to date younger guys.  Or guys with better hair then me.” Light’s hand involuntarily went to his well-coiffed crown, naturally making him preen a little.  “Or mass murderers,” I added, my smile growing wider.

The friendly look slid off his face.  “I’m _not_ Kira.  How many times do I have to say it before you believe me?”

“As many times as it takes for you to sound sincere.”

Light’s biting retort was cut off by our waiter, who was meekly delivering our food – tuna sandwich for me, Caesar salad for him.  We put the conversation on hold to take a few bites.

“That reminds me,” I said after a few minutes.  “There’s been something I’ve been meaning to ask you, too.”

He swallowed his mouthful of salad and dabbed at his lips with his napkin before answering.  “What is it?”

I rooted around in my purse for a minute before pulling out a photograph.  “Take a look at this for me, would you?”

Light made a face.  “Is this another one of those suicide notes? I already went over this with Ryuzaki.”

“Not this time.  Here.”  I passed the picture to him.  It was Misora Naomi’s official ID picture, borrowed from the FBI database. 

For just a second, there was a flash of recognition in his eyes, and his full mouth meant that he couldn’t deny it immediately.  I pressed my advantage.  “You recognize her, right? My sources say you’re the last person to have seen her alive.”

There it was again – another of those blink-and-you-miss-it cracks in his neutral expression, this time a murderous scowl.  I had him…so long as I actually had just seen that, and my eager mind was not playing tricks on me. 

“Yeah, I think I recognize her,” he said once he had swallowed.  “She was – right, she was at the NPA office a couple months ago.  She wanted to speak to the Kira Taskforce, but there was no one there.  She was so angry, she didn’t even want to leave a message for them.  I offered to call my dad for her, but he didn’t pick up.  She stayed with me a while, but then she lost her patience and left.”

Perfectly rehearsed.  No holes in it at all.  Memories like it had happened a few hours ago instead of a few months.  The truth would have been more halting, more hesitant, wouldn’t have had all those details perfectly in place with no prompting at all.  Light had practiced that little speech, which meant he had felt the need to sound natural, which meant he was lying.

“You said I was the last person to see her alive,” he was saying.  “What happened to her?”

I hesitated.  “I don’t know.  She went missing in January.  No one’s found a trace of her since.”

“I’m so sorry.  Is she a friend of yours?”

I nodded, feeling a lump swell in my throat.  “Y-Yeah.”

He reached across the table and grabbed one of my hands.  “Don’t give up.  You haven’t found her body, right? That means she could still be out there.”

I pulled my hand out of his grasp.  “No, I’m sure she’s dead.  The day she went missing, she left a message on my phone saying she’d figured something out about Kira.  I never found out what she meant by that – probably because Kira found out first, and killed her to protect himself.”

“That’s horrible – wait.” His eyes narrowed.  “And since you suspect me of being Kira, and that I was the last person she was seen with before she went missing, you think I killed her?”

“I’m just covering all my bases.  It’s nothing personal – you’d do the same if our situations were reversed.”

His expression became neutral again.  “That’s a good point.  Still, I don’t want you to –”

He broke off as my phone started ringing.  Caller ID said it was L’s mobile number.  I answered immediately.  “Everything okay, Ryuzaki?”

“Has Yagami Light confessed to being Kira yet?” L asked.

“No, he hasn’t.”

“Has he confessed to being in love with you yet?”

I scowled.  “ _No_ , he hasn’t.  Will you get over that already?”

_Click._

I cursed under my breath and returned the call.  L answered on the third ring.  “Is that the only thing you called to say?”

“Yes.” _Click_.

I took three deep breaths and put my phone away.  “Remind me to punch him in the face later.”

Light’s mouth twitched in a smile.  “Ryuzaki seems like a handful.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Why do you put up with him? He seems like more trouble than he’s worth.”

I shook my head, smiling a little.  “He’s worth a lot.  Look, I obviously can’t give you details or anything, but I can tell you that Ryuzaki and I have been friends for a really long time, almost half my life.  I don’t have a family or anything, and he’s all I have in the world.  It’s not an exaggeration to say that he’s the only reason I’m alive right now.  I stick with him because that’s what my life is – supporting him.”

“That sounds like a pretty sad life.”

“I disagree.  It’s fulfilling, not to mention the thing that makes me happiest.”

“It doesn’t have to be like that, though,” Light insisted.  “You don’t have to be joined to his hip.  You can go out and have your own life, your own friends – even a boyfriend, if you wanted one.  It would be easy for you, since you’re so intelligent and beautiful.”

I raised an eyebrow.  “Yagami- _kun_ , if you’re about to confess your feelings to me, don’t.  Seriously, I am not with that _at all_.”

That miffed look in his eye returned.  “Don’t worry, I don’t think of you that way.  But I _do_ think of you as a friend, despite everything you’ve said, and I don’t want you to waste your life.”

I smiled.  “Thanks for your concern, but I told you, I’m happy being with Ryuzaki like I am.  And even if I wasn’t – well, again, no details, but let’s just say that our lives and experiences are such that we’d be a major part of each other’s worlds no matter what.  The two of us are halves of a whole, and we share the same fate.  If he lives, I live.  If Kira kills me, that must mean he killed Ryuzaki first.  You can’t have just one of us.”

Light winced.  “Don’t talk about you getting killed by Kira.  It’s not pleasant.”

I pulled put my wallet and slapped some money on the table.  “In that case, we should do all we can to prevent it, which means let’s get back out there!” Light put some bills of his own on the table, and we left the café together.  “Oh, and Yagami- _kun_?”

“What is it?”

“I think we could be great friends, too.”

“Could be?”

“Yeah.  Could be.”

We didn’t find Kira that day.  I knew we wouldn’t.  Now more than ever, I was sure that Kira had been standing right next to me the whole time.


	23. 4.7: A Case of Identity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death Note (c) 2003 Ohba Tsugumi and Obata Takeshi. Another Note: The Los Angeles BB Murder Cases (c) 2006 Nisio Isin. All rights reserved.

**Chapter 7: A Case of Identity**

-May 27th, 2004-

 _Light-_ kun _is the first friend I have ever had._

Those words, spoken so casually in front of Light and the rest of the Taskforce, shattered upon my ears like glass.  They made my ears ring and my blood roar through my veins.  The room felt ten degrees colder, and the couch on which I was sitting seemed to wobble.

_L doesn’t see me as a friend._

Light cleared his throat, looking embarrassed.  “Um…I consider you a friend, too, Ryuzaki, and I miss you at college –”

“I’d like to go back sometime,” L mused.  “Perhaps we can play tennis again.”

“Yeah, I’d like that.  But Ryuzaki –” He shot a sheepish glance in my direction.  “– I can’t be the _first_ friend you’ve ever had, right? There’s Casey- _san_ , too.”

L peered at me over his shoulder, shifting in his seat to accommodate the new angle.  His gaze was a black hole, all-consuming yet completely empty.  “No,” he said after a long time.  “I can’t categorize my relationship with Casey as friendship.  Light- _kun_ , my feelings for you are a much closer fit for such requirements.”

For the first time since we’d met, Light looked genuinely uncomfortable.  “Uh…how would you categorize it, then? Family? She did say you’d been together a long time…”

“No, not family, either.”

“Partners? Allies?”

“Allies would be the closest, yes.”

The answer was a slap in the face.  L did not like me.  L was completely indifferent to me.  I had devoted my life to him and had loved him with everything I had, and I was merely his “ally.” Someone who worked with him for the sake of convenience, not fondness.  What happened to that declaration of friendship when he left the House? What happened to the worry he felt during the Sakura TV incident? Were my transgressions so severe that he was willing to cut all ties to me emotionally?

From very, very far away, I could hear Matsuda begin to shout.  “Ryuzaki, that’s too cruel! Anyone can see how much Casey- _san_ does for you, and now you’re saying she’s not your friend? Just because you’re a hotshot detective, that doesn’t give you the right to –”

“Matsuda- _san_ , it’s fine,” a voice said.  It took me a moment to recognize that it was mine, and that I had gotten to my feet.  “Fine,” I repeated, sounding as flat and toneless as L.

Matsuda’s eyes were welling up in sympathy.  “But Casey- _san_ , isn’t Ryuzaki the one who you –”

“I need some coffee,” I interrupted a little too loudly.  “I think I’ll go ‘round the corner.  Anybody else want anything?”

“Casey- _san_ –”

“No? Okay, then.  Be back in a bit.” I left before anyone else could say anything and soon found myself trudging down the street with no recollection of how I’d gotten there.

I knew he was lying about Light.  The two of them were very similar, but even L had to realize that everything they said to each other was all part of their battle of wits, L vs. Kira, weapons they could use to kill the other.  L had probably said that to shock Light, to appeal to whatever humanity Light had left, to maybe make Light hesitate if he ever had the opportunity to murder him.  I knew that.

But I also knew that saying “my friend” instead of “my first friend” would have had the exact same effect.  L said nothing pointlessly or mistakenly; he had meant to exclude me.  I could think of no other reason why he would besides the notion that he simply had no emotional attachment to me.  And that made me realize something: L had said plenty of times that we were friends, as two people bored with their marriage say they loved each other, but he didn’t treat me like a friend.  He didn’t care about my feelings or my well-being, and he shied away whenever I touched him or even stood too close to him.  That nonsense he had said about not being able to reason at full capacity without me could very well have been a lie to stop his most loyal and powerful resource from dying needlessly.  Or perhaps it was true for some inexplicable reason, and he kept me around only to augment his abilities.  Either way, I was only a means to an end.  One thing was certain: when L said we were not friends, I saw the truth in his eyes, reading him just as Morrello had taught me.

How could I have gotten it so wrong all these years? How did I misread him like that? Perhaps the truth had always been right in front of me, and my wishful thinking had blinded me to the obvious.  L did not understand or enjoy people.  I was a person.  I had been foolish to think he could think of me any differently than he thought of anyone else.  _I can’t do this…not returning my feelings is one thing, but not liking me at all? What’s the point of making him miserable by staying? What’s the point of any of this? I can’t, I can’t, I –_

Something soft knocked into me, yelping out in surprise.  I resurfaced, realizing I had no idea where I was or for how long I’d been walking.  There was a young woman collapsed on the sidewalk before me, rubbing her head as though it hurt her.  Evidently, I had just bumped into her, and my momentum had been enough to knock her to the ground.

She glared up at me through blue-green colored contacts – I’d seen my own falsified reflection enough times to recognize them.  “Hey! Watch where you’re going!” Her voice was shrill and indignant.  Something about her seemed a little familiar, but I wasn’t capable at the moment of deciphering what it was.

I glanced away and muttered an apology.  I knew I ought to help her up, but the shock was wearing off and my emotional levee was on the verge of shattering completely.  My first instinct was to flee before the meltdown came in full, so I sidestepped the fallen woman and prepared to run off.

The woman seemed to have other ideas.  I heard her clamor to her feet behind me and then grab my sleeve with an unusually strong grip.  I looked back reluctantly, expecting her to start shouting, but was surprised to see a concerned expression on her face.

“Hey, why are you crying?” she asked, anger forgotten.  “Are you hurt? Omigosh, it’s because I snapped at you, isn’t it? I’m so sorry, I’m not that mad, really!”

Sure enough, the tears were starting to fall.  I looked away from those earnest eyes, rubbing my own eyes on my free sleeve like a child – I’d forgotten to take my handkerchief in my rush to get away.  “It’s nothing you did,” I managed to croak.

“Is it a guy?”

I nodded without thinking, and with the levee broken at last, started to sob in full.  Then an unexpectedly powerful tug started dragging me down the street, and I looked up to see the woman striding purposefully down the street, pigtails bouncing, still holding my arm in a vice grip.

“W-Where are we going?” I asked, rubbing my eyes again.

“The same place I go when I have a bad breakup.  Honestly, my boyfriend and I are so great together that I didn’t think I’d ever have to go there again, but it’s fine if I get to help you out!”

“There” turned out to be a sit-down ice cream parlor downtown.  It was a hot summer night, and the place was packed with families.  The woman waved at one of the waitresses, who immediately led us to a secluded table in the back, out of everyone else’s sight.  As we passed the other customers, the woman ducked her head and turned away so that they couldn’t see her face.  Whatever she was trying to accomplish, it was pointless; everyone was too busy staring at the sniveling foreigner to pay much attention.

“Two of the usual, please!” my new friend told the waitress as we sat down.

“No problems with your new man, are there, Misa- _chan_?” the waitress asked, deliberately and kindly ignoring me.  “I thought you said this one was a keeper.”

“Oh, he is, trust me.  If only we could all be so lucky.” She reached across the table and squeezed my hand with real affection.

When the waitress left, I asked, “Sorry, did she just say Misa? As in…?”

She winked.  “Yup.  Amane Misa.  So glad to meet you!” She pumped my hand enthusiastically.

Now I remembered.  Not only was this girl’s pop single my ringtone, but I’d also seen her on a magazine back in March.  L had run out of sweets, and since Mr. Wammy was busy with some errand, I’d volunteered to make a grocery run.  The lines had been long, so I’d idly started flipping through a fashion magazine and bought it on a whim.  This Misa had been on the front cover.

“Wow,” I said in subdued amazement.  “Heaven’s Door is my ringtone.”

“Aw, really? I’m so glad you like my song that much! I was a little nervous since it was my first single, but it sounds like people really like it!” She sounded genuine, not just a star talking to another fan.  She really seemed to care.  No wonder she was so popular.

“Yeah, it’s catchy.  Oh, right, and I’m Casey Watson.”

“Huh?” The smile slid off her face, and her eyes flicked upward.  I’d recovered just enough to recognize the motion as unusual – and a little familiar – but not enough to think on it with any real clarity.  “Um, I’m sorry.  I’m really bad with foreign names.  Could you say that again?” I repeated myself, speaking more clearly through the remnants of my tears.  “Got it.  I’ll call you Casey- _chan_ , okay? Nice to meet you!”

The waitress returned with two enormous strawberry sundaes, drizzled with strawberry topping and with actual berries mixed in.  The whipped cream looked homemade, too, unexpected for a place of this size.  “I thought you were a supermodel,” I said as I watched Misa tear into hers with gusto.

Her grin was mischievous.  “I won’t tell if you won’t.  Now go on, your ice cream’s melting!” I was not in the mood for strawberries this time, but I obediently picked up my spoon and started to eat.  It wasn’t half bad.

When both bowls had been all but licked clean, Misa put both elbow on the table, rested her chin on the back of her hands, and leaned forward in a businesslike fashion.  “So what did he do? Forget your birthday? Said your favorite dress made you look fat? Cheat on you with your best friend?”

I shifted uncomfortably.  “Um, Amane- _san_ –”

“Call me Misa!”

“M-Misa…you really don’t have to be this nice to me.  I’m overreacting, it’s really not that big a deal.”

She shook her head so vigorously that her pigtails nearly slapped a passing waiter.  “If it makes you cry, it’s a huge deal! Your boyfriend should only ever make you cry with happiness – anything else, and he’s not worth it!”

“Well, that’s just it.  He’s not my boyfriend.”

She nodded in understanding.  “Oh, gotcha.  He started going out with someone else.”

“Um, not exactly…” I paused, hemming and hawing over how much I should say to a civilian.

 “Hey.” She reached over, grabbed my cheeks, and turned my head to make me face her.  She was smiling kindly, and her gaze was strong and determined.  “Even if it seems silly for someone else, it’s hurting you pretty badly, so it’s a big deal.  I promise, whatever it is, I won’t laugh.”  Her sincerity touched me nearly to the point of tears again.

Speaking as broadly as possible, I told her what happened.  “I mean, I’d come to terms with the fact he’d never return my feelings a long time ago.  It wasn’t anything I did; that’s just how he’s wired.  He can’t comprehend love, and I understand that.  But now to find out that he doesn’t have any attachment to me at all, not even a little…I know nothing’s actually changed, but…” I trailed off, not sure how to put feelings I barely understood into words.

It appeared, however, that I didn’t need to bother trying, as Misa understood enough to be outraged.  “Ooh, that makes me angry!” She stamped her foot beneath the table, lips curving into an indignant pout.  “That jerk! Doesn’t he know a good thing when he sees it? I mean, look at you!”

I felt my face grow hot.  “You, uh, seem pretty invested in this, Misa.”  She didn’t seem to be putting on airs or feigning empathy at all.  She was genuinely enraged over the romantic plight of a stranger.

She stared at me as though offended I had even questioned her.  “Well, duh! I know exactly how you feel, after all.”  Her expression mellowed out, and she stared down at her clasped hands, lost in thought.  “My parents were killed about a year ago,” she said after a long time.  “Since then, I haven’t ever really enjoyed anything, you know? Not even once.  I mean, I put on a good face for the cameras and the fans and whatever, but it’s not real.”  Then her face lit up, like she was an acolyte looking upon the face of God.  “But then I met my boyfriend, and he gave me a reason to keep living.  He made me feel important and happy when nothing else did.  So trust me, I know that having the right person to love, and being loved right back, can make or break your life.”  She reached out and clasped my hands in both of hers.  “That’s why I’m telling you to leave if you’re unhappy.  He’s not your boyfriend and he’s not making you happy, so you don’t owe him anything.  You need to put yourself first.”

I drew back, shaking my head.  “I can’t.  He’s all I have.  I’m nothing if he’s not there.”

“So _be nothing_.  Get rid of the person you are now, and make a new one.  One that can live a good, fulfilling life.  I know it’ll be hard, but if I can do it, you can do it.  And it really is worth it once you know you’re in the right place.” She winked again.

I’d done that before, countless times.  There were days I couldn’t even remember Hasegawa Chie, diplomat’s daughter at the top of her class.  I’d had a thousand lives since then, and L had been at the center of a thousand universes.  I’d been so sure that this one was the right place Misa was talking about.  Could I really toss it away? Could I go back to living as I had when my father was alive, when I’d never known L?

Misa suddenly shrieked in alarm; she had evidently been looking at the clock on the wall.  “Oh, no, is that what time it is? I’m so sorry, Casey- _chan_ , but I’m super late! Um…oh!” She pulled a pen out of her purse, scribbled something on a napkin, and handed it to me.  “That’s my phone number.  Call me if you ever need to talk – or if you confront that jerk and can’t think of anything to say.  I’ve got _lots_ I want to tell him!” She shouldered her purse, squeezed me in a tight and unexpected hug, and raced out the door, stopping only to tell the cashier to put both sundaes on her tab.  I watched her go, feeling like I’d seen that pattering gait somewhere before.

And then I was on the ground, chair upended, hands clamped to my temples, my head split in pieces by the force of my own brainpower.  From far away, words wafted past me.  I caught one, _ambulance_ , and in a slurred voice assured the speaker that I did not need medical attention, but I was pretty sure I needed a bucket.  Someone half-carried me to the toilet just in time for me to spew pinkish bile.  When I had nothing left to retch, I pressed my cheek against the cool linoleum and waited for my thoughts to slow and the world to stop spinning.

The way she had run.  Her height.  Her build.  Not her eyes, but I already knew those were contacts – she was Japanese, so they were bound to be dark.  All that talk about having a purpose after meeting someone she loved.  And that flick of the eyes upward when I said my name – my _alias_.  It was the same thing Beyond Birthday had done in a different life.  _I can see it, floating just over your head.  Your real name._

Amane Misa was the Second Kira.

-

I didn’t go after her.  Even if I managed to find her again, I couldn’t just arrest her on a whim.  No court would convict on gut instinct alone, especially from a woman who collapsed after coming up with that revelation.  Solid physical proof was the only thing that would put Misa away.  And besides, reading between the lines of all that boyfriend talk, it sounded like she had already made contact with the First Kira.  With any luck, a thorough and secret investigation before the arrest could lead to her idol – to Yagami Light.

So I let her go.  I caught a cab back to the hotel and, for once, took the elevator to the room, too dizzy still for stairs.  I was going to tell L everything.  He would know how best to proceed, even if I didn’t.

He was the only one in the room, shuffling over to the kitchen area for more sweets.  “Welcome back,” he said, looking up as I came over.  “I’ve sent everyone else home for the night.  It’s been quite a while, and for some reason, they were acting a little uncooperative.”

“How so?”

“They thought I was being cruel to you.  I tried to explain, but they weren’t willing to listen.”

He had his usual blank face on, same as always, like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t torn my heart out and ground it into the dust beneath bare feet.  The triumph of my deduction faded, and I could hear those hateful words again, like the past few hours had never happened.  Only this time, I was not heartbroken – I was furious.

“Oh, yeah?” I said in a shaky voice, trying to feign calmness.  “Well, I’m listening.  Tell me.”

He cocked his head to the side.  “Must I? I’d have thought you’d have discerned the truth on your own.”

“I haven’t.”  I took a step closer to him, looming over his bent back, feeling the first flush of rage beginning to blossom on my face.  “Tell me why Yagami Light is your friend and I’m not.”

He sighed, as though I was being the stupid one.  “Yagami Light is not my friend.  That was a lie for the sake of the investigation.  I am not so desperate for companionship that I would throw my lot in with a serial killer.”

I knew that.  I wasn’t interested in that.  “You were not lying when you said we weren’t friends.  My brother taught me how to know.  You looked right in my eyes and told me the truth.”  Another step closer.  My voice was starting to crack with anger.  “So tell me the truth again.  If I’m not your friend, what am I?”

L shrank back, staring at the floor between us.  “I’ve said so already.  You are my ally.”

“No, you said allies would be the closest thing to describe us.  You didn’t say what the _actual_ way to describe us is.”

He shifted his weight, unable to meet my eyes.  At least he knew enough to be guilty, though the fact he knew he was doing something wrong and wasn’t trying to fix it made it all the worse.  “Why must I tell you? We are what we are; the exact quantification of our relationship shouldn’t matter.”

The bomb went off.  “Of course it fucking does!” I shouted, making him wince.  “Do you know how much I had to give up for your sake? Do you know how much you mean to me? Damn you, you are the most important person in my world, and now you’re telling me you don’t feel anything for me at all?”

“I didn’t say that,” L said in a low voice.

“You didn’t say _anything_! So say it now, or I’m walking out that door and never coming back.”

His head snapped upwards.  “You can’t.”

“Try me.  I don’t have to take this from you; you have no right to string me along and make me feel worthless. Tell me where I stand, or I’m leaving.”

He said nothing.

My heart was shattering all over again, but pure rage held me together.  “God damn you for a heartless bastard, L.  I hope you _never_ find evidence on Light.”  I whirled around, crossed the room, and opened the door.

A hand shot out over my shoulder and slammed the door with enough force to knock some glassware off its precarious position on the table ledge.  I turned to see that L had followed me, standing up straight enough to meet my eyes – or he would have, at least, if he was not still staring at the floor.  His neck was bent so far downward that his hair was obscuring his eyes.

“I was never going to say this,” he said, his voice only slightly above a whisper.  “Not to you, not to anyone.  I would have taken it to my grave.   Remember that.  Remember that this is your own fault.”  I waited for him to continue, anger replaced with fear.  He took several deep breaths and continued in – of all things – an uneven, unsteady voice.

“When we fought after you returned from Sakura TV, I told you that without you beside me, my deductive abilities dropped twenty percent.  That is the truth, but not the whole truth.  When you _are_ with me, my abilities drop by ten percent.  No matter what, because of you, I am incapable of operating at full capacity.”

“R-Ryuzaki –”

“ _Listen to me_.  That’s what you want, so let me say my piece.”  He took another deep breath.  “I have often been accused of lacking human empathy, of being little more than a computer program in human skin.  You say it in jest; others are more serious.”

“I wasn’t –”

“Yes, I know, but you’re right, in a sense.  Before I met you, I felt nothing.  I had no emotions, no needs, no sense of humanity.  I was logic incarnate, a computer that simply looked like a human.  I could not say if I was happy or unhappy, because I did not know the difference.  But then you came into my life, and I experienced emotion for the first time.  You made me laugh, weep, rage, fear, and experience everything a human being is supposed to experience.  You took away everything I was and replaced it with everything you were.  You destroyed me and created something new.  Something real.”

The arm holding the door in place started shaking hard.  I bent over to look at his face and was stunned to see that it had turned bright red, the blush creeping down his neck.  He was embarrassed – no, _mortified_.  For the first time since I’d known him, he looked on the verge of tears.  _Is…is he…?_

“You are everything,” he went on, the words coming out fast and trembling.  “You embody everything I do not, everything I wish I could be.  You inspire me to be kinder, stronger, nobler.  You make me so…so _happy_ …”  He swallowed, and I saw the first tear slide down his cheek.  “And you also make me sick.  When you’re with me – close to me – my stomach churns.  I can’t breathe.  My heart beats so quickly and strongly that I fear it will burst.  It feels like I’m dying.”  He let out a bitter chuckle.  “And if you can believe it, it’s even worse when you’re not with me.  I think of you constantly, worry that you’re in trouble or in pain, imagine what you would say to me if you were here, imagine – I can’t even say what I imagine.”  His arm dropped, and he turned away, shuddering so hard that he was blurring around the edges.  “I told this to Watari, and…and he said I was in love with you.  I don’t know what being in love feels like, but Watari has no reason to lie to me, so it must be true.”

I could almost feel the earth beneath me grind to a halt.  I opened my mouth, but no words came out.  I swallowed, aware of every breath, every heartbeat.  “What…did you say just now?” I finally choked out.

His shoulders hunched further.  “I’m in – in love with you.  That’s why I said Yagami Light was my first friend.  My feelings for you, whatever they are, surpass friendship.”  His posture sagged, as though it was all he could do to hold himself up.  “That’s all,” he finished in a meek, defeated voice.

“Oh.”  It was all my saturated mind could churn out.  I shook my head in an attempt to clear it, but it was still a colossal effort to speak around my dry tongue, much less find the right thing to say.  “Why didn’t you say anything before now?”

He flinched as though the words had physically hurt him.  “Because I knew what you would say in return.  I am more self-aware than you realize; I know my habits are odd, even repulsive.  You’ve expressed frustration with them in the past, and that is through the lens of friendship.  As anything more than that, I’d be intolerable.  And beyond that, despite what you have done to me, I am very undeveloped in an emotional sense.  I would not be able to make you happy or even meet your needs on the most basic level.  You – you deserve better than that.  Than me, I mean.”

He turned around and met my eyes for the first time.  His voice had not broken down fully, but the tears were flowing fast and hard now.  His complexion was the same shade of pink as Misa’s sundae.  “But I am begging you: no matter how disgusted you are or how uncomfortable working together will be, please do not leave just yet.  You owe it to yourself, and to everyone you have lost, to see this case through to the end.  And I – I do not think I can stop Kira without you.  So please stay with me, just for a little while longer.” He bowed in supplication, swaying slightly on his feet.

The pit in my gut that had formed hours ago – no, years ago – was dissolving.  In its place was not emptiness, but a bubble of happiness, rising higher and higher till it reached my face.  I beamed, meaning it more than I ever had.  A very different sort of tear was prickling at the corner of my eyes.

“Ryuzaki,” I said with real warmth, “you’re an idiot.”

“I know,” he mumbled.  His exposed skin had now gone the color of cooked beets.

“Like, _really_ an idiot.  More so than Matsuda.”

“That’s a bit harsh.”

“If I don’t tell you you’re an idiot, no one will.  As your partner, your friend, and your girlfriend, it’s a special privilege.”

“I understand, but that doesn’t – wait, what?” He looked up at me, shock etched into his tearstained face.  “What did you just say?”

“I said you’re an idiot.”

“No, after that.  You said partner, friend –”

“And girlfriend, yeah.”

This was just a day of firsts for L’s face – now his mouth was slack in shock, and his eyes were bugging so widely that they looked about to fall out of his skull.  I didn’t think it was possible, but his face had gone even redder, and for once, he was speechless, mouth forming soundless words.

I stepped forward, grabbed his face in both hands, and kissed him.  His lips were softer than I’d imagined, and he tasted like mocha and berries, sweeter than anything I’d ever eaten.  I felt him shiver under my touch.  He did not kiss me back, but he didn’t pull away, either.

After what could have been a few seconds or a few years, I pulled back and smiled, delighting in his dumbfounded expression, at the fingers pressed in wonder against his lips.  “Do you honestly think,” I told him, “that I would have given up my cushy life and put up with your nonsense all this time if I wasn’t madly in love with you?”

L stood frozen for a long time, and when he finally got his mouth working again, he spoke in a hoarse whisper through his fingers.  “It…it seems unlikely…”

“There you go, then.” I giggled, feeling lighter and freer than I had in years – if ever.  “God, what a pair we are.  We thought the exact same way.  I was so sure that you would be totally incapable of loving anybody, so I resigned myself to just being your friend.  And now you’re seriously telling me that all that suffering I went through was completely pointless?” I shook my head in amazement.  “Honestly, Ryuzaki, you are the single most –”

The words were knocked out of me as L slammed into me, wrapping his arms so tightly around me that I had trouble breathing.  Not that I cared – I hugged him back just as hard.

“You really mean it?” he asked, the question muffled by my dampening T-shirt.  “You really…love me?”

“I really do.  And if I ever hear you call yourself repulsive again, I’m punching you, got it?”

He nodded, more moisture seeping through my shirt.  “Thank you.  Thank you for loving me.”

I kissed the top of his head.  He shivered again, but did not tense up this time.

A loud cough sliced through the silence, and I looked up to see Mr. Wammy emerging from his bedroom, one eyebrow raised.  I gaped at him, not sure what to say.  If L had heard, he was ignoring him.

“Well,” Mr. Wammy said after a moment, “I honestly thought I’d never live to see this moment.  Thank you for communicating like adults – now Roger owes me fifty quid.”

I felt a blush of my own color my face.  L muttered something into my shoulder.  “Speak up, Ryuzaki,” Mr. Wammy prompted.

He lifted his head only slightly.  “ _Go away_ , Watari.”

“You probably should,” I added by way of apology.

“Right-o.  Do try and behave yourselves a little.  We _are_ investigating a serial killer.” He retreated with dignity, leaving us blessedly alone.


	24. 4.8: Changing of the Guard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death Note (c) 2003 Ohba Tsugumi and Obata Takeshi. Another Note: The Los Angeles BB Murder Cases (c) 2006 Nisio Isin. All rights reserved.

**Chapter 8: Changing of the Guard**

-May 28th, 2004-

On the face of it, nothing changed.  We agreed that our relationship (a phrase that sent me soaring every time I thought of it) had to remain a secret from the rest of the Taskforce, Light in particular.  At this point, Kira was getting desperate.  If he saw a weakness, no matter how small, he would push it till we broke.  Better and safer for both of us if we carried on like last night hadn’t happened.  So I apologized to the investigation for running out on them, evaded their questions, and went back to the investigation like normal.  I treated L the same as I always had, and he responded in kind. 

But when everyone had scattered or gone home or drifted off to sleep, I would sit down beside L on the couch.  With painful slowness, he gradually scooted closer and closer until he was pressed up next to me, his head tilted slightly to rest on my shoulder.  I would put my arm around his curved back, and he would awkwardly snuggle against me, his pallor blossoming like a cherry tree.  He would never initiate anything more than that.  He continued to freeze up when I kissed him, and I could tell that the level of panic he felt would produce a scream in a normal person.  Once I’d pulled back, he would scramble back to the far end of the couch, biting furiously at his thumbnail and ducking his head to hide his inflamed cheeks.  As expected, he had no idea how to respond to such things, and would grapple with a new experience – indecision – before warily scooting back.  I had at long last achieved the Wammy kid’s dream of stumping the great L.  Never had I expected him to be so cute while at a loss.

And the whole thing was enough.  Oh, wow, was it ever enough.

On the business side of things, however, we skyrocketed into progress.  When we had both collected ourselves somewhat, I told L about my meeting with Misa and the deduction I made.  He agreed that she was suspicious and trusted that I did indeed recognize her from the Sakura TV incident, and so we agreed to formally present her as a suspect to the rest of the Taskforce.  I was expecting resistance - she was a minor celebrity, after all - but to my surprise, they agreed to investigate with one word of complaint or even an incredulous look.

It was Mogi who sealed the deal.  As a sort of insurance policy, we had kept him away from the Taskforce since Light joined up, so that there would always be one person whose face was a secret from Kira.  Per L’s instructions, he had taken to tailing Light - not often, not enough to be noticed like Raye, but enough to make a difference.  And when we told the Taskforce about Misa, he broke his silence at last (having said maybe five words to me in the five months I’d known him) and seconded our suspicions.  In recent weeks, he explained, he had spotted Light on dates with no less than _five_ women, one of whom was Amane Misa.  What’s more, not only was Misa the only one who initiated contact with him, but on the very night I’d met with her, she and Light had met up.  Light usually was the picture of grace and charm around his dates, but as soon as Misa showed up, he had seemed irritated and spoke very little.

L thought a moment, nibbling his thumbnail in contemplation.  “He must have been seeing those other women in order to deflect attention from his seeing one specific woman.  He’s obviously not with Amane-san because he wants to be, so she must have already made contact with him as the Second Kira.” He nodded to himself and turned to the rapidly-graying chief.  “Yagami-san, please have your people search Amane-san’s house.  Don’t bother with a warrant - we ought to keep this secret from the public until both Kiras are under arrest.”

For once, Yagami didn’t argue.  The next day, he and a team of forensic investigators (who believed they were on a drugs bust) broke into Misa’s apartment and searched for anything connecting her to Kira.  Finally, _finally_ , our luck changed; they found DNA evidence and hair follicles matching those caught in the envelope that had been sent to Sakura TV.  Physical evidence.  Solid proof.  Still nothing about how Kira killed, but at that point, it was all but unnecessary.  We had her.

-

“Don’t stare, Ryuzaki,” I scolded, slapping him on the arm in censure.

He continued observing the young couple sucking each other’s faces off beneath the tree across the pathway.  “This is a public place.  If they didn’t want anyone to see, they should have gone somewhere else.”

We were seated (or at least, I was, while L was crouching) on a bench in the middle of the To-Oh University quad, two fishers waiting for the big catch.  It was nearly four in the afternoon, and according to Mogi’s report, Light passed this way every day on his way to the café where he would spend his afternoon break.  A quick hack into the Yoshida Productions database revealed the Amane Misa had a photoshoot up the street at four-thirty.  Judging by the way she had spoken about her boyfriend, I had no doubt that Misa would try to sneak off to campus to see Light before the shoot began.  It was a gamble, but if all four of us met up, then we would make our move.  Today, right here, while Light had his guard down and was reveling in his forthcoming victory.

I closed the book I was pretending to read and frowned at L.  “Yeah, I know, but it’s still rude to stare.  Stuff like that is meant to be private.   Look, no one else is doing it, see?” The students and visitors commuting the walkway were indeed averting their eyes and picking up their pace, pretending not to notice the PDA. 

“Even so, I’d like to continue.”

I stifled a laugh.  “Oh, so that’s what you’re in to? I gotta say, I didn’t think you were the type.”

He looked away at last to give me a frown of his own.  “Don’t be crass.  It’s not that I want to look, I –” He broke off and turned his head away quickly, though not quickly enough to beat his blush.  “I need to,” he finished in a much quieter voice.

I leaned closer, making him tilt further away in turn.  “Why? Don’t tell me this is case-related.”

He mumbled something under his breath.  I caught only one word: education.

“Are you – are you saying that you need to study people kissing?”

“I’ve pursued other avenues, of course,” he said, speaking a little too fast and still not looking at me.  “There are a number of informative videos online.  Although sometimes the material they contain is somewhat…superfluous…”  He cleared his throat, and the tip of his ear started to turn red.  “However, I noticed no change in my technique since watching them, and so I thought the results would be more tangible if I conducted research in person.”

This time, I couldn’t hold back a burst of laughter, which caused L’s shoulders to hunch in embarrassment and the passersby to give me strange looks.  “Aw, Ryuzaki, you don’t have anything to worry about.  Trust me, if there was a problem, I’d tell you.”

“I don’t want there to simply be ‘no problem.’  I want you to –” He hesitated again, but turned back to me and gamely pressed on.  “I want you to enjoy it.”

I laughed again.  “You’re just too cute, you know that?”

“That is precisely what I mean.  You enjoy my reaction to your advances, not the advances themselves.”  His eyes narrowed slightly, and his eyes took on that focused gaze he adopted whenever faced with a particularly challenging problem.  “Casey, am I correct in assuming you have carried on romantic relationships with other men?”

I informed him that he was, though they had been few and far between.  The last one had been a brief fling at school, before the BB case. 

“I thought as much.  However, as I’m sure you’ve discerned for yourself, you are my first.  You are used to a certain level of performance in your partners, and I find myself incapable of meeting that level for various reasons.  As such, I am intent upon catching up to you quickly so as not to disappoint –”

I cut him off with a quick peck on the lips, making him squeak in surprise and lean so far away that he almost fell off the bench.  By now, his face was the color of ripe cherries.

“Got your attention?” I asked.  He nodded.  “Good.  Now, let’s get one thing straight.”  I held up my pointer finger to illustrate.  “All those other guys? I was with them ‘cause I was physically attracted to them, because I had a biological craving to satisfy, and because it was the thing normal girls with normal IQs did.  You? I’m with you because I love you.  That means anything you and I do is automatically better than anything I did with those other guys.  Like, a thousand times better.”  I prodded him with my outstretched finger.  “The only way you could disappoint me is by insulting my taste and my feelings when you put yourself down like that.  So knock it off, understand?”

“I understand.”

“Good.”  My smile turned mischievous.  “And by the way, kissing’s not something you can improve at just by watching.  If you really want to get better, I’d be more than happy to help you practice.” 

He stared at me, mouth slightly open in shock.  I’d seen more expressions on his face in the sixteen hours we’d been dating than in the preceding thirteen years, and I delighted in every last one of them.  Before he could stammer out the latest adorable response, though, his eyes darted up to look over my shoulder.  His mouth snapped shut, his complexion faded to its usual sickly coloring, and he waved an arm in greeting.  “Light-kun!” he called out with forced enthusiasm. 

I straightened up and turned to look.  Sure enough, Light was strolling up the path, chatting with a pretty girl with short hair – classmate and co-girlfriend Takada Kiyomi, according to Mogi’s surveillance notes.  When he saw L’s wave, he stopped cold, and the relaxed smile slid off his face.  He said something to Takada, and after a moment, she stalked off with her nose in the air.

“Yikes,” I noted as Light came over.  “You know she could’ve come over, right?”

“Never mind her,” Light said with the agitation that could have come from either fear or anger.  “What are you doing out here, Ryuzaki? Isn’t it dangerous with the Second Kira around?”

“It’s quite all right,” L assured him without making eye contact.  “The only person outside the Taskforce who knows who I am is you.  I’ll be fine so long as you don’t tell the Second Kira.”  He looked at him fully then, making a small noise like he’d just remembered something.  “Oh, that’s right.  Following that logic, I’ve instructed your father and the others to assume you are Kira if I die in the next couple of days.”

Light stared at him.  One eye started to twitch.  “That’s not funny, Ryuzaki,” he said in a low voice, not quite masking an enraged tremble.  “Not the accusation, and not the thought of you getting killed.”

“I agree wholeheartedly on the latter,” I piped up, nudging L with my elbow.  “But on the former, you technically have yet to be cleared entirely.  Until we have an actual suspect, you’re our scapegoat.  Bad luck, Light- _kun_.  Sorry.”

He scowled openly at me.  “You’re not sorry and you know it.”

I winked.  “You’re right.  I shouldn’t apologize for doing my job.”  He rolled his eyes but did not press the point further.

Light and L started chatting in broad, vague terms about the case.  I pretended to listen while surreptitiously scanning the green for familiar blonde pigtails.  After less than five minutes, I spotted them.  Misa had arrived on campus and was rotating her torso from left to right, searching for her boyfriend/co-conspirator.  I nudged L again, and we both stood up suddenly, L inviting Light to the cafeteria for a snack.  I was hoping the quick shift in orientation would catch Misa’s eye.

It did.  As we turned and started to walk away, I heard the thump of her combat boots on the pavement gradually increase in volume, followed by shrill, “Light!” We turned back around to see Misa less than a foot from us, a pale pink flush in her cheeks and an exuberant smile lighting up her face.  I glanced at Light; he had turned pale, and his eyes had widened only slightly.

“M-Misa,” he said by way of greeting.  I noticed his hands clench and unclench, as though he were picturing himself strangling her.

If Misa noticed his less-than-enthusiastic reaction, she did not respond to it.  “I’ve got a photo shoot today, and when I saw the location was right by your school, I just had to come visit.”  She bounded forward and squeezed him in a hug.  His arms stayed rigidly locked to his eyes, and I couldn’t help but snicker.

My reaction caught Misa’s attention.  “Huh? Oh, it’s you!” She stepped back from a relieved Light, and her eyes – brown today, sans colored lenses – narrowed in concentration.  “Don’t tell me…Casey- _chan_ , right?”

I nodded.  “Yup.  And you’re Misa- _chan_.  Nice to see you again.”  Somewhat at a loss, I held out my hand for her to shake and received a bear hug of my own instead.  For such a little frame, she sure was strong.

“Do you two know each other?” Light asked, a little too naturally.  He at least had managed to arrange his face into a smile.

“Not really,” I admitted, wriggling free of Misa’s vice.  “We literally ran into each other last night and struck up a conversation.  And you two are dating right? Wow, small world.”  I smiled at Light, whose own expression became somewhat fixed.

Misa giggled.  “I know, right? I’d never have guessed you knew my Light – wait.”  She squinted at me, her round and childlike face making her frown more adorable than threatening.  “That guy you were talking about yesterday…you didn’t mean…?”

“What – oh, no!” I waved my hands in a gesture of abject denial.  “No, no, no, so much no.  Not my type, not my age, not my level of personal grooming.  He’s all yours, and I wish you joy of him.”  My stomach churned in protest at the very idea.  Behind me, L let out a little _heh_ , and I resisted the urge to kick at him. 

Instantly, Misa’s smile snapped back like a rubber band.  “Oh, thank goodness! I thought we were gonna have a problem there for a second.”  Her smile turned sly.  “So how ‘bout it? Did my super-special Misa-Misa-brand love advice work, or did it work?”

“Love advice?” Light and L echoed at the same time.

My turn to blush now.  “Shut up, you two.”  I turned back to Misa.  “It, uh…it didn’t _not_ work.”

She cocked her head to the side.  “Huh? Did it, or didn’t it?”

“…”

That seemed to be all the verification she needed.  She let out a shriek of delight and grabbed both my hands.  “Oh, yay! I’m so happy for you! Tell me all about it, okay? Don’t leave out a single second – ooh, I know! Let’s go on a double date! I want to see this guy for myself.”  She glanced over at Light, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet.  “Doesn’t that sound fun, Light?”

“Uh…”

L came up around me and peered into my face.  “So even you can get uncomfortable, Casey.  That’s very reassuring.”

“Drop it, or I will force-feed you broccoli.”

“You wouldn’t.”

Misa let go of my hands and looked back and forth between the two of us, finally realizing that there was a third person present.  “Oh, who’s this? Friend of yours, Light? Hi, I’m Light’s girlfriend, Amane Misa.  Nice to meet you!” She stuck out her hand, which L stared at but did not take.

“Uh, yeah,” Light said, reeling from the speed of Misa’s speech.  “This is my classmate.”  He paused for my benefit, ostensibly pretending to get his aliases straight for the situation.

“Ryuga Hideki,” L finished.  “Nice to meet you.”  He bowed, continuing to ignore the hand.

Misa frowned, dropping her arm to her side.  Again, her head tilted in confusion.  “Huh? Ryuga…Hideki?”

There it was again – that little flick of the eyes upward, that intense stare at a point just above the head.  Like she had done at the ice cream shop.  Like B had done.  I couldn’t believe I hadn’t made the connection sooner.

Before she could incriminate herself, Light manhandled his way into the middle of the group, blocking Misa’s direct view of Light.  He (loudly) concurred with Misa’s surprise, saying how odd it was that his friend had the same name as that male idol.  I shot L a frustrated glance.  He didn’t look at me, but tapped one finger against his leg.  _Wait._  Misa revealing that she knew we had fake names had always been a longshot, the proverbial winning lottery ticket.  No one could be that stupid, after all.  We had another plan in place.  Light and Misa, as Kira and the Second Kira, were certainly working together, which meant that Light was making use of Misa’s eye power.  In that case, the instant he was alone, he would call Misa to find out our real names, and thus be able to kill us.  To stop that from happening, one of us would have to pickpocket Misa’s phone.  An incoming call from Light would not exactly condemn him in a court of law, but it certainly wouldn’t help his case.

Unfortunately, we suffered yet another setback.  Misa’s high-pitched shouts had attracted attention, and out of nowhere, swarms of her fans began crowding around us, offering support and asking for autographs.  A wall of people materialized in front of me, cutting me off from the rest of the group.  For a split second, I panicked – how was I supposed to reach Misa’s phone?

And then Misa screamed.  “Hey! Some pervert just pinched my butt!”

_Oh, Jesus.  He didn’t._

He had.  In a loud, theatrical voice, L proclaimed that he would personally find the culprit and see that they were punished – while at the same time moving one hand guiltily behind his back.  “For fuck’s sake,” I muttered through gritted teeth.  Still, his back pocket was bulging slightly; he seemed to have both swiped the phone and maneuvered it from hand to trousers without anyone noticing.

Then the crowd parted, and a stern thirty-something woman in glasses grabbed Misa’s arm and began dragging her away from the crowd, scolding her for being late.  I recognized her from our preparations – Ishikawa Yoshiko, Misa’s longtime manager.  Misa went without a fuss, but called an affectionate farewell over her shoulder to Light.

So far, so good.  Now it was my turn.  As the hordes began to disperse, I slipped away and started following Misa and Ishikawa at a distance, trusting L to come up with the necessary excuse. 

It had been a long time since I’d had to tail someone, and thoughts of Raye and the other agents bubbled up unwillingly, but I wasn’t spotted.  We left campus and headed down the sidewalk toward the main road.  A black SUV drove past, and then stopped a few feet beyond Misa and Ishikawa.  There were no other pedestrians or cars passing by – we’d closed the road, with Mr. Wammy lifting the barricade just long enough for the two women to go this way. 

It was time to go.  I broke into a jog.  “Hey, Misa-chan!”

They stopped and turned just in time to miss Aizawa and Mogi, protected by motorcycle helmets, exit the SUV.  Misa waved, but Ishikawa scowled at me as though I were a particularly large bug crawling up her wall.  “Misa has an appointment right now,” she said as I approached.  “Whatever business you have with her, leave a message at our office, and we’ll process it appropriately.”

I smiled sheepishly.  “Sorry, I just have something I need to say real quick.”

“It’s okay, Yoshi,” Misa added.  “She’s not a stalker or anything – she’s my friend.  We’ll just be a sec, okay?” Ishikawa’s scowl deepened, but she nodded and took a few steps back, leaving me with her client and my crushing guilt.  “So what’s up?” Misa asked.

I took a deep breath, then smiled very naturally.  “I just wanted to say –”

Mogi’s arms shot out, one wrapping around Misa’s waist to restrain her and one clamping over her mouth to keep from screaming.  Yagami darted around them and slipped a blindfold over her eyes.  Behind them, Aizawa wrestled Ishikawa to the ground and handcuffed her. 

L had promised me this.  I unclipped the handcuffs I’d attached to my belt and hidden beneath my long tunic.  Yagami grabbed Misa’s arms and wrenched them together and forward, with Mogi still holding her still.  I snapped the cuffs over her wrists, swallowing my personal feelings in the face of duty as I’d always done.

“– you are under arrest on suspicion of being the Second Kira,” I finished. 

Up until that point, Misa had done what anyone would have – struggled to free herself from Mogi’s bearlike grasp.  As soon as the words left my mouth, however, all the fight went out of her.  She slumped against her captor, head hanging in defeat.  When I asked if she understood, she nodded mutely.  When I told her I was sorry, she nodded again.  I would have preferred her to shout. 

Mogi and Aizawa hauled their charges back into the SUV, and Yagami nodded at me and patted my shoulder in camaraderie before following him.  Whatever the implications this meant for his son, we had at last made an arrest, and we had done it together.  I placed my hand over my shoulder, knowing what was coming and feeling sick to my stomach because of it.

When the SUV had driven away and I was alone again, I pulled out my phone and called L.  The whole thing had taken less than two minutes; he ought to still be with Light.  “Got her,” I said as soon as he picked up.  “They’re on their way to the facility now.”

“Thank you very much,” L replied, flat as ever.  “Would you hold on one moment, please? I need to tell Light- _kun_.”

“Yeah, sure.”  I started walking, phone still to my ear.  L must have taken the phone away from his mouth, for his voice faded into a dull, unintelligible murmur.  I couldn’t hear Light at all.

After another few minutes, L spoke again.  “Thank you.  Light- _kun_ just left.”

“How did he take it?” I asked, not particularly caring after his emotional state.

“He was upset, of course, as anyone would be.  I couldn’t quite discern whether it was over the foiling of his plan or genuine concern for his loved one.”

“Hard to tell with that one.  The former for him would be just as strong as the latter in others.”

“Indeed.  I imagine even Aiber would have difficulties.”  He paused.  “Casey, you know that was for the sake of the investigation, right?”

“What, the arrest? Duh.”

“No.  Seizing Amane- _san_ ’s phone.”

“Oh, right.”  I giggled.  “Man, here I thought you were the submissive type, but you’re surprisingly carnivorous, huh? Have you been holding out on me, lover boy?”

“I didn’t do that because I wanted to.  That’s where her phone was.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Amane- _san_ may be universally considered to be conventionally attractive, but I can assure you that you are vastly superior in all aspects.”

I stopped walking, needing a minute to collect myself.  For a moment, I struggled to come up with a way to re, but my feelings couldn’t reform into words.  So, as a defense mechanism, I fell back to sarcasm.  “Are you saying you want to touch my butt instead?”

“…Good-bye, Casey.”

“I love you,” I blurted out, not joking this time.

Long, long silence, and then, “IloveyoutooI’llseeyoubackattheroomgoodbye.”  Click.  Ah, progress.

-

I didn’t like it, Mr. Wammy didn’t like it, L was probably indifferent, the Taskforce hated it, but we all agreed that it had to be done.  We still didn’t know exactly how Kira killed; it could have been as simple as thinking about it.  Now that our aliases were useless, we had to err very, very heavily on the side of caution.  We had to hold Misa at an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town, with cameras and microphones pointed at her twenty-four-seven and only Mr. Wammy there in person to guard her and keep her alive.  We had to put a light-cancelling blinder over her eyes so she wouldn’t see Mr. Wammy’s face.  We had to not only put her in a straightjacket, but also tie her in a standing position to a dolly that was all-too-reminiscent of a medieval torture device.  It was cruel beyond measure and probably violated every human rights convention on the planet.  It was also necessary.

For the first two days, she kept quiet, ignoring all our questions and only speaking to ask for the toilet.  She did not respond to any of our investigation – our torture – techniques.  On the third day, she begged us to kill her, and when we didn’t respond, she tried to bite off her tongue, and Mr. Wammy had to gag her.  She passed out after that, but when she woke up again, she started talking.  Not confessing – talking.  She accused us of being stalkers keeping her active for our own amusement, and when we tried correcting her, she just scoffed and said the police wouldn’t act this way.  We asked her about Kira, and she said she had no idea what we were talking about.  We asked her about Light, and not only did she confirm she knew him, but also said they were dating.  She had made a complete 180; it was like she was a totally different person.  Either she had finally snapped under pressure, or she was pulling the most convincing con in history.

Or she was innocent.

Two hours after Misa regained consciousness, Light called L’s mobile, saying that he was outside the hotel and wanted to be let in.  I was expecting (an affectation of) heartsick bluster and emotional demands that Misa be freed, but to everyone’s shock, as soon as Light arrived, he confessed to being Kira.  Or rather, he confessed that there was a possibility that he might be Kira while he was asleep or otherwise unconscious, since L had decided it and L was the greatest detective in the world.  The whole thing reeked of bull and was obviously part of some sort of endgame, but we had no choice but to incarcerate and survey him (at a different facility from his partner, of course) until we’d determined whether or not he was actually Kira.  His father, overcome by emotion, requested that he too be locked up in order to prevent him from doing something drastic. 

One week into Light’s confinement, during which time no criminals had died, it happened again.  One moment, he was talking normally and perfectly compliant, and the next, something changed.  He suddenly exclaimed that he had made a mistake, that this was all an elaborate setup to frame him, that he wasn’t Kira and never would be.  For the first time, he completely lost his composure and pride, begging on his knees to be set free and falling down weeping when we refused.  L and the Taskforce wrote this off as the desperation of a condemned man, but something bothered me.  It was hard to tell through the camera, but Light’s outward attitude wasn’t the only thing different.  He may have been an excellent liar, better than any I’d ever met, but up till then, I’d been just barely able to detect subtle changes that hinted at deception.  I saw none of them now.  There was emotion in his eyes for the first time – real emotion.  Whatever the truth was, he really and honestly believed that he wasn’t Kira.  If that was the only strange thing happening, then maybe I could have been persuaded that it was just Light losing his mind; added to Misa’s about-face, though, and it became a serious concern.

And then the criminals started dying again.  Two weeks’ worth all at once, exactly thirteen days since Light first presented himself for arrest, and every day thereafter.  Kira had resumed his normal pattern, and there was no discernable change in Light or Misa.  The former did not know our names and the latter had not seen our faces, so they couldn’t be the culprits.  That ought to have been the point where we let them go, but L informed all three of our captives that Kira had not killed again since they were taken captive.  He stubbornly held fast know matter how loudly the Taskforce protested.  For my part, I had no idea what to believe anymore.  This case had gone so far beyond the boundaries of logic and reason that I no longer had any idea how to find the truth.  The only thing I could trust was my gut, and not even that was Yagami-proof.

Fifty days into Light’s confinement, Aizawa had had enough.  “Ryuzaki, this is ridiculous.  These two clearly don’t have any access to the outside world, so it can’t be them killing.  We need to let them go.”

“We should start over,” Matsuda added.  “Light-kun could help us catch the real Kira.  I bet we’d find him in no time.” Mogi nodded. 

L said nothing.

“Hey, guys,” I said after a minute.  “You mind giving us the room?” They exchanged glances, Aizawa looking none too happy at being dismissed so casually, but they obeyed.  I heard them arguing down the hall about which takeaway place to go to.

I sat down next to L on the couch, angling myself to face him.  He didn’t look at me.  “Ryuzaki –”

“Yagami Light is Kira and Amane Misa is the Second Kira,” he cut off.  He spoke like it was a mantra to ward off evil spirits, a single truth in a world of lies.

I sighed.  “I know.  I never said they weren’t.”

“I _cannot_ release them.”

“They’re not the ones killing right now.  That is a fact.  If you don’t let them go, then not only will this third Kira go unchecked, but you’ll drive away your allies.  We still need them, right?”

L stared at the monitors, pinpoint gaze focused on Light’s cell.  He had slumped off the bed and was lying face-down on the hard floor, the very picture of defeat.

“Suppose,” L began after a moment, “that Kira has the ability to transfer his power from person to person.  The old Kira loses all memory of killing, and thus cannot implicate the new Kira while in police custody.  It may even be possible to transfer the power back again to the original owner.”

“That would definitely reconcile Light being Kira with our current situation, I’ll give you that.” But it was also the most ridiculous and unprovable theory I had ever heard – so par for the course for this case.

“If that is what’s happening, then letting them go would be going along with Light- _kun_ ’s plan.  We’d be playing right into his hands.”

“So let’s play.  I never thought I’d say this, but Matsuda’s right; Light could be the key to catching this new Kira.”

He huffed in frustration.  “You’re not listening –”

“No, _you’re_ not listening.” My voice turned steely and hard.  “I know you don’t want to be wrong, but remember, you are a detective.  We form theories based on evidence, not the other way around.” I pointed at Light’s prostrate body.  “Light is suspicious, and he’s not telling us everything, I grant you that.  But I’ve been watching him, watching his face, and he is not lying when he says he’s not Kira.  Either he’s telling the truth or only thinks he’s telling the truth.  Regardless of which one it is, he’s not killing people now.  Someone else is.  The whole reason we came to Japan is to stop the murders.”

“This will stop the murders,” L insisted.

“No, it won’t.  This is just like the cameras in his room – we can watch forever and still get nothing but more blood on our hands.  When it comes right down to it, Ryuzaki, what’s more important: solving the case, or being right?”

“Those are the same –”

“They aren’t, and you know it.”

We stared each other down.  L’s eyes narrowed.  “I thought being my girlfriend meant that you had to be nice to me.”

“Being your girlfriend gives me license to tell you when you’re fucking up.  And you are indeed fucking up.”

He sighed and shook his head.  “So we just let them go.  We say ‘you’re not Kira after all, my mistake, so sorry,’ and that’s it.”

“I didn’t say that.  I have an idea on how to prove once and for all whether they’re still involved or not.”

“What is it?”

I reached over and activated the speaker connected to Yagami’s cell.  “Hey, Chief –”

Immediately he scrambled out of his chair, which clattered noisily to the floor.  “What is it?” he shouted, charging forward and gripping the security camera with both hands.  “Good news? Bad news?” A minute ago, he had looked like death warmed over, a perfect match for his son.  The elder was suffering just as much, if not more, than the younger.

“I…don’t know yet.  But I know how we’re going to close the book on this.  Once this is over, if Light- _kun_ has not presented evidence indicating beyond a shadow of a doubt that he’s Kira, I’ll let him go.  You have my word.” Beside me, L scoffed, and I smacked his arm with my free hand.

Yagami frowned warily, but nodded.  “I’m listening.”

“Good.  Get yourself cleaned up and come down to the hotel room.  I’m gonna need your help with this.”


	25. 4.9: Snapshots

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death Note (c) 2003 Ohba Tsugumi and Obata Takeshi. Another Note: The Los Angeles BB Murder Cases (c) 2006 Nisio Isin. All rights reserved.

**Chapter 9: Snapshots**

They weren’t Kira.  Or at least, they weren’t Kira at the moment.

We put them in a life-or-death situation to force them into using their power.  Having put them side-by-side in the same vehicle and shown his face clearly to Misa, Yagami pointed a gun loaded with blanks at his son and made as though to kill him and then himself.  All three of them walked out of the car alive.  True to my word, I forced L to let them go.

Of course, the matter couldn’t be dropped cold-turkey.  We still had physical evidence connecting Misa to Sakura TV, and Light was still our only consistent match to the original Kira’s ever-changing profile.  As such, reasonable precautions were put in place.  Misa would be under video surveillance twenty-four-seven, but she would be free to move around and resume her normal life and career, so long as Matsuda (posing as her new manager – Ishikawa had been paid off handsomely to quit her job and keep silent about the whole debacle) accompanied her everywhere there wasn’t a camera or a toilet.  As for Light, he could work side-by-side with us on the investigation as promised, but with a catch – he would be handcuffed to L with a long chain, which would not be removed until Kira had been caught.  It was inconvenient and humiliating for them both (not to mention annoying for their girlfriends), but it was either that or the cell.  Light agreed, naturally.

With the new pecking order in place, we finally addressed the problem of our headquarters.  We were rapidly running out of hotels to cycle between, and it was clear that we needed an alternative.  I suggested finding a more permanent space to L, only to learn that he had ordered construction on a new building even before arriving in Japan.  The building was over 60 stories tall, with two underground floors and a hidden helipad, able to accommodate up to a hundred people as the investigation required (showing a rather misplaced sense of optimism with regards to Yagami’s original team).  It was completely impenetrable and loaded with state-of-the-art technology, including the very latest in home security.  Construction was officially completed within a week of Light and Misa’s release, and we all moved in and took to the new scenery (minus Aizawa, whose children were too young to have him living away from home) with enthusiasm and motivation to work hard.

Well, almost all of us.  Having adjusted to his new relationship far better than I had anticipated, L had himself floundering in the face of yet another new experience: being wrong.  Still stubbornly asserting Light and Misa’s guilt, he refused to actively participate in the investigation, spending is time listlessly moping and staring off into space.  The others wondered if he might be depressed; I thought he was just pouting because he couldn’t get his way, or else desperately going over the information in his mind over and over, trying to figure out where he went wrong.  Either way, he wasn’t helping us, and we suffered for it.  Light and I were brimming with drive and were individually very smart cookies, but he had the disadvantage of joining the investigation late and still being treated as a suspect by the team leader, while I was – well, not L.  The everymen others, of course, had nothing to contribute.

So we floundered.  We looked over all the old data and found nothing.  We searched for new clues and found nothing.  We ranted and raged and shed sweat and blood and tears in equal measure, and we found nothing.  And so time passed.

-

-August 2nd, 2004-

Misa crawled behind the overturned sofa, taking refuge beside me.  “Aren’t you going to stop them?” she asked.  Something else tipped over and shattered, making her wince.

I took a sip of my tea, which I’d rescued off the table just in time.  “Are you?”

“No, are you crazy? What if they hit me by accident? I make my whole living on my face being perfect!”

I didn’t have the heart to tell her that at this point, it probably wouldn’t be an accident.  “Guess we wait it out then.” I took another sip.

We were less than twenty-four hours into our new residency, and there was an incident already in progress – but after more than thirty minutes in, so at least it exceeded my expectations.  The four of us – Light, L, Misa, and I – were in one of Misa’s rooms on a “double date,” which had mostly consisted of Misa whining about L’s presence, L subtly throwing sarcastic insults in kind, and Light and I exchanging exasperated and apologetic glances.  When Light had commented on L’s lack of motivation, L had vocalized his depression and disappointment that Light and Misa were not Kira.  Light, since he was offended, threw a punch; L, since he was L, retaliated.  The double date devolved into a violent scuffle, any advantage they gained quickly hindered by the handcuffs and chain (about which they seemed to have forgotten).  What resulted was two bodies effectively being thrown back and forth across the room in quick succession, leaving a trail of broken furniture in their wake.

Something else crashed to the floor, and Misa let out a little shriek of fear.  “C’mon, you have to do something!” she begged.  “What’s a black eye to you? No one cares how you look.  And, hey, don’t you know kung fu and stuff? Can’t you get between them with that?”

“First, I know karate and jujitsu, not kung fu.  Second, _I_ care how I look, and I don’t want my face rearranged regardless of how little money it makes me.” There came the wet thunk of a fist introducing itself to a face, and this time we both flinched.  “And third,” I continued in a louder voice, “even if I stop them, now they’ll just go at it again harder in five minutes.”

Misa’s brow furrowed.  “What do you mean?”

“Misa- _chan_ , you and I are women, so our first instinct when confronted with a problem is to release tension in an emotional sense.  Cry, scream, seeking validation by complaining to our friends, treating ourselves to improve our mood, stuff like that.  You know, like your sundaes.” Misa nodded.  I jerked my thumb over my shoulder.  “Those two, on the other hand, are men.  Their first instinct is to release physical tension, which means hitting each other in the face until they feel better.  If I stop them now, they won’t have any other way to channel their anger, and it’ll just bottle up until they start hitting each other again – harder next time.”

Misa took a moment to digest this.  “So – get it out of their system while they’re not angry enough to seriously hurt themselves?”

“That is exactly what I’m saying.  Trust me, this is the only way to control the damage.” I drained my teacup and set it next to me on the floor.  “They’ll listen to reason once they calm down.  For now, we wait.”

As it turned out, we didn’t have to wait long.  As soon as I stopped speaking, we heard the muffled ringing of the landline from behind an aptly-named throw pillow.  The sounds of the fight immediately ceased, and L answered the phone.  After a moment’s pause, he hung up.

“What was that?” Light asked, sounding out of breath.

“Matsuda- _san_ ’s acting stupid again.”

“Heh, well, that is his specialty.”

I made an apologetic gesture toward the security camera – Matsuda was usually the person who had to monitor Misa’s location no matter who was with her – and pulled myself to my feet by the top of the sofa.  Beside me, Misa raised herself to a kneeling position and cautiously peeked over our makeshift barrier.  Light was on his feet, dabbing at a cut on his lip with a tissue; L just getting to his feet from a crouch, a mosaic of black and blue already blooming in the center of his face.  At least his nose didn’t look broken, thank God.  They were still glowering at each other, but the phone call had broken their rhythm and temporarily dissuaded them from resuming the brawl.

I walked around the sofa and came to stand before the two of them.  “So, you guys all done?”

They considered each other carefully before nodding.  “Yes, I think so.” “Sorry, Casey- _san_ , Misa.”

“Feel any better?”

“Not really,” they said together.

“Too bad.” I grabbed fistfuls of hair at the back of each head and knocked their foreheads together – not enough to cause damage, but enough to hurt. 

“Ow!” Light yelped, his hands leaping to his bruised forehead.  He glared at me, the effect marred by the fact that his eyes were watering in pain.  “Hey, what was that for?” L, meanwhile, had gone slightly cross-eyed but did not cry out, only giving me look like a kicked puppy.

Unmoved, I dusted off my hands and wiped the traces of grease and hair product off on my jeans.  “For being a matched set of morons.”

“We are _not_ a matched set,” L replied with venom.

Light pointed at him like they were two kids on a playground.  “Did you hear what he said to me? He’s the one who –”

“I couldn’t give a sixteenth of a shit who started it.  You are both acting like infants, and your tantrums are not appreciated.”

“But –”

“Casey –”

“ _Shut_.  _Up_.”  I glared at both of them in turn until they averted their eyes.  “Now, look.  I get that tensions are high.  I get that up until last week, the lot of us were enemies.  But this isn’t last week, it’s _this_ week.  _Kira_ is the enemy now – the Kira who is right now at this very moment murdering people,” I amended quickly, speaking over L’s protest.  “Like it or not, we’re all on the same side, so start acting like it.  Ryuzaki, there is no evidence that Light- _kun_ and Misa- _chan_ are Kira.  Quit subverting the evidence.  Light- _kun_ , don’t take Ryuzaki’s bait.  You know he doesn’t know any better – you _don’t_ , Ryuzaki, how can you be the judge of that? Now, both of you shake hands and let’s get back to the entire reason we’re here, shall we?”

Neither of them moved.  I gave them a ten-second grace period before reaching up and pulling my necklace over my head.  Attached to it was a small key, one of only two copies, the other of which belonged to Mr. Wammy.  I yanked L’s wrist upward, unlocked the cuff, grabbed several fistfuls of the chain, and tugged on it sharply.  Light, still cuffed, staggered forward a few steps in an attempt to keep his balance.  “Come on, you.  Misa- _chan_ , follow me.”  I left L to lick his wounds and dragged Light into the elevator, with Misa close on our heels.

Since we had so much unused space in the building, everyone (minus Light and L, of course) ended up with a whole floor of rooms to themselves.  Mine was right above Misa’s, the better to keep track of her and respond in case of an emergency.  L and Mr. Wammy had provided their input on this suite specifically, and I had to say, I admired their taste.  The design was tastefully understated, with a very calming cream and pale-blue color scheme.  There wasn’t much furniture, but it was arranged in such a way that rooms didn’t feel empty.  Everything was set with comfort, rather than appearance, in mind.  They had even shipped over some of my old stuff from my Los Angeles apartment.  Still, there was nothing overtly personal or identifying in the room.  The only bits of decoration were a photograph of a generic city skyline – which I recognized as Winchester, the view out my window at the House – and a little bronze figurine of Sherlock Holmes examining some invisible clue with his magnifying glass.  Someone, probably Mr. Wammy, had stocked the bookshelves with all my favorite mysteries, while keeping my old dog-eared and moth-eaten copies in place for sentimental value.  After the itinerant lifestyle of the past few years, it was refreshing to have a place I could truly call mine.  I hadn’t felt this comfortable in a room since I was a child.

Now, though, the presence of Schrödinger’s Serial Killers detracted from the domestic effect.  I hauled Light through the rooms, irritated by the necessary invasion of my private space.  I may have bowed to the inevitable concerning the fundamentals of deduction, but the fact remained that I was less sympathetic toward my erstwhile suspects than the other Taskforce members were.  Here, at least, I wouldn’t have to worry about a possible escape attempt.  After a moment’s consideration, I decided on the bathroom as a temporary jail cell.  With one hand, I shoved aside my hanging towels, bunching them up on one side of the rack.  With the other, I clapped the unoccupied cuff on the now-empty towel rack, trapping Light in place.

“H-Hey!” he said in a panic, struggling vainly to free himself.  Misa, objecting loudly to this recent turn of events, started pulling on the chain in the hopes that it would simply snap off.  No luck, of course.

“Relax,” I said.  “It’s just for a few minutes.  I’ll be back before you realize I’m gone.  Misa, there’s a first-aid kit in the medicine cabinet.  Feel free to help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge – except my pudding cups.  Touch those and you’re going back in the hole, proof or no proof.”  They shuddered at the memory and nodded quickly.  Satisfied, I left the room with the door open and walked out of their line of sight.  Then I pulled a small egg-shaped device out of my pocket and aimed it at one of the cameras mounted on the wall.  My floor had the same security features that all the others did, but out of respect, L had ordered they be turned off unless Light and Misa were present (which they never were).  Mr. Wammy had developed and given to me the egg, which I called the Kill Switch, so that I could control any camera in the building without having to walk all the way down to the control room on the second underground floor.  Mr. Wammy was stationed there until further notice, both to monitor the cameras and to hide his face from our suspects.

The camera whirred into life, the little red light winking on.  I waved, and the camera swiveled on its mount to face me.  “Keep an eye on them, would you, Watari?” I asked.  “I need to deal with the other one.  Be right back.”  The camera moved up and down in an imitation of a nod before swiveling again to focus on Light and Misa.  I heard the other cameras activate, in case Misa started moving around, as I stepped back into the elevator. 

L was as I’d left him, standing cluelessly in the middle of Misa’s demolished living room.  I took a few minutes righting the sofa by myself, then pointed at L and the sofa in turn.  “Sit.”  He sat.  I used the Kill Switch to deactivate the cameras and, ignoring the ringing phone – probably the Taskforce asking the cameras to be turned back on, the nosey old gossips – sat down beside him.  We were quiet for a long time, mulling over the best thing to say to each other.

“You’re going to tell me to get over it and get back to work, aren’t you?” L asked at last, his voice hardened with bitterness.

I shook my head.  There were certainly times that I wanted to, and times where I was so sick of his immaturity that I wanted to lock him up myself, just so I wouldn’t have to deal with his moping.  When it came right down to it, though, I wasn’t going to push him before he was ready.  Amir hadn’t been ready, after all, and he’d ended up being pushed off the scaffold. 

“I know you need a little time.  This is the first time one of your deductions hasn’t panned out, right? Must be a shock.”

L’s head snapped around, and he narrowed his eyes.  “I am _not_ wrong.  You know that.”

I sighed.  “You are as far as the investigation is concerned.  _You_ know that we can’t prove that power-jumping theory, even if we could get anyone else to even listen to it.”  Realizing I was starting to sound angry, I took a deep breath and backpedaled.  “Look, I get it, okay? I wanted Light and Misa to be Kira, too.  I wanted this to be over with.  Every day we don’t catch Kira is another pint of blood on our hands.  I’m sick of failing, and I’m sick of losing.”

I reached over and grasped both L’s hands in both of mine.  For once, he did not pull back.  “But even though we lost this time, we can’t let this beat us.  Kira’s still out there.  I’m never going to stop hunting for him, and I know Light won’t, either.  Not so long as you’ve got an eye on him.  If you’re not capable of helping us right now, then that’s fine.  Just don’t hinder us.”  I hesitated, wondering how far he could go.  “And know that, no matter what you think I can do, no matter what you think Light can do, you’re the only one capable of catching Kira.  We – _I_ need you on this.”

He nodded, averting his eyes again.  I patted him on the shoulder and started to get up to leave, but stopped when he blurted out an apology.  I sat back down and frowned.  “Don’t apologize to me.  I’m not the one whose face you busted up.”  Well, not recently or directly, at least.

“I’m not sorry for that.  He deserved that.”

“…Okay, that I’ll give you.  What are you sorry for?”

He flicked his now-freed wrist.  His sleeve fell back a little, and I spotted a chafed red outline of the cuff.  “Amane- _san_ is rather upset about these.”

“Really? I hadn’t heard.”

That made the corner of his mouth quirk up in a smile.  “Yes, well.  As I understand it, her chief complaint is that the fact that I must observe Light- _kun_ at all times is interfering with her romantic relationship.”  He paused.  “I was…wondering if you were upset as well.”

We had not touched each other since Light and Misa were released.  At this point, I had no idea how well we were actually keeping us secret – not very, judging by the suggestive comments and knowing smiles from a surprisingly-benevolent Matsuda – but neither of us were willing to show our hand.  If L was right (and he usually was), and Light was manipulating the situation to give up and then regain his powers, then being open about our relationship would only load his gun.  We weren’t taking any chances.

I took a moment to pick my words very carefully.  “How do you feel about it?”

I was expecting another silence, flavored with the usual blushing and mumbling, but to my surprise, he looked at me right in the eye and said immediately and evenly, “I regret the idea.  I miss being with you, and I wouldn’t want Light- _kun_ intruding even if there was no danger to us.”

I blinked, thrown off by his openness.   He smiled again.  “Your face is red, Casey.  That’s a cute look for you.” 

“S-Shut up!” I punched his arm, making him grunt in pain.  Too late, I remembered the fight.  “Ah, dammit.  Sorry.  Uh, Misa’s probably got a kit around here, hang on…”  I started to stand up again, but L reached out and grabbed my wrist in an imitation of the cuffs, pulling me back down with surprising strength. 

“It’s fine,” he said, still making uncharacteristic eye contact.  “In terms of medicine, this is all I need.”  He scooted toward me, lifted himself slightly out of his crouch to lean forward, and kissed me full on the mouth.  Five fingertips pressed gently against my cheek; the other five pressed against the back of my head, pulling me forward.  No hesitation, no shyness, no holding back.  I seized up in shock, and he took the opportunity to dart his tongue past my slack lips and start exploring.  His eyes closed for the first time since I’d met him, and his hand dropped from my cheek to the small of my back, pulling me even closer until I was pressed up against his compressed chest, feeling his heartbeat going crazy.

It probably didn’t last very long – L hadn’t quite mastered the art of kissing and breathing simultaneously – but to me, it seemed like an entire lifetime past before he let go, gulping down air and scratching his head self-consciously.  I worked my tingling lips soundlessly for a few moments, feeling the phantom sensation of his tongue on mine.  My face must have been redder at that point than Chief Yagami’s favorite suit.

“ _Jesus Christ,_ Ryuzaki,” I managed at last in a deceptively even voice.

He finally looked away, newfound confidence quickly evaporating.  His own blush returned in full force, clashing horribly with his riddling of bruises.  “Did you…not like it?”

“No! I mean, yes! I mean –” I took a deep breath.  “That was the most amazing thing I ever have or ever will experience, but where the flying fuck did that come from? It’s only ever been me kissing you, not you kissing me.  And you’ve never – done it like that.”

He fidgeted, embarrassed.  “Oh, I see.  I’m…glad you liked it.”  Long pause.  “I’ve been…asking for advice.  From Amane- _san_.”

I froze up in an entirely different way.  “Excuse me?”

“A few days ago, before the handcuffs and while you were sleeping.  Amane- _san_ asked if we were in a relationship, and then clarified that the question was rhetorical since it was, as she put it, ‘totally obvious’ that we were.  At that point, continuing to hide it would be ineffectual.  Since she is currently and has been in several past relationships, I thought she might offer some useful –”

I raised a hand, cutting him off, and then pulled my phone out of my pocket to call Misa.  She answered right away.  “Oh, Casey- _chan_! You’re coming back soon, right? I think Light needs to pee, but he can’t quite reach the toilet…”

“What did you tell Ryuzaki?” I asked without preamble, a snaking sense of dread chasing away the remnants of the kiss.

“Wha – oh!” She giggled.  “I just told him how to be a good boyfriend.  You know, make you _happy_.”  The implications dripped palpably from the word like honey from a comb.

I was still blushing, but this time from mortification.  “Why did you do that?!”

“He said you were his first girlfriend.  You seem to really like him, so I didn’t want you to have a bad time.  Even if you did kidnap me.”  Her voice took on an air of enthusiasm, and I pictured her leaning forward with her eyes flashing, hungry for gossip.  “So spill! What did he do? Ooh, did you guys just do _it_? I didn’t think it’d been that long since you left, but hey, you know how it is, right?” She giggled again.

I nearly dropped the phone.  “Misa, isn’t your boyfriend _right there_?” I hissed through gritted teeth.

“Yup! What’s that – oh, okay.  He says sorry.  Aww, his face is all red, how cute!”

“ _That was supposed to be a secret_!”

She snorted.  “Well, it’s not.  Like, really not.  Don’t you see how he looks at you?  It’s sweet, really.  And totally obvious.  The other day, Matsu and Mochi were arguing about what your kids would look like. What do you think, blonde or black hair?”

I hung up and chucked the phone across the room (where it landed blessedly whole on a scattered stack of fashion magazines), and then buried my face in my hands.

“You know,” L said thoughtfully, “despite what I said, I may need some actual medicine after all.  I think Light- _kun_ bruised my rib.”

-

-October 1st, 2004-

“Hey, Casey- _san_ ,” Light asked, breaking the five-hour silence.  “Can I ask you a serious question? Like, a personal one?”

“I might not answer, but sure, shoot.”

We were in the command center on the first floor, where the Taskforce conducted their daily work.  It was four in the morning, and the others had gone home or gone to bed hours ago.  The two of us, desperate to make progress, had stayed up to go over the old case files for the umpteenth time.  One monitor was turned to the local news, kept on low volume so as not to disturb anyone.  L, still morose and ever the insomniac, sat beside us, alternating between stacking sugar cubes and staring into space. 

Light hesitated, biting his lip in consternation.  Once again, I was struck by the change in him.  He wasn’t exactly a different person since that day in confinement – I still caught glimpses of the narcissistic swagger and impatience with his non-genius colleagues, though they were few and far between.  Still, his behavior had changed.  Before, I had gotten the sense that all his emotional responses were fabricated, a means to keep up appearances.  Now, when he reacted with feeling and fervor (which was happening far more frequently than it had before the confinement), it didn’t feel forced.  Outwardly, he was much warmer, especially to Misa, even though it was still obvious he didn’t return her feelings.  His perfect diction and charm had declined into uptalk, tangents, and stumbling over words – in other words, he was speaking like a human being.  I checked him almost constantly for the telltale cues Morrello had taught me for deciphering a lie, and every single time, he was genuine.  Either he was the world’s greatest actor, or the confinement had altered his behavior.  Or my earlier perception of him had been the result of paranoia and bias.  It had been hard to tell at the time.  Whichever it was, there was something very wrong here, something that made my stomach churn with anxiety.  _What the hell happened to you, Light? Is L right after all about the memory thing?_

“I know this seems like a stupid question,” Light began, shifting uncomfortably in his chair, “but I don’t want to know in terms of your job.  Just answer like you’re not a detective – I mean, like you’re completely unrelated to all of this.  Like Penber- _san_ and Misora- _san_ weren’t your friends.”

Their names dropped heavily on me, weighing me down so heavily that I thought I’d sink into the floor.  I closed my eyes for a moment, then opened them and nodded.  “Okay.”

He turned his chair to face me, looking at me dead in the eye.  “What do you think of Kira?”

“He’s a criminal,” I answered straight off.  “A heartless murderer who’s judging people according to his own notion of right and wrong, not the law.  A devil who needs to be stopped at all costs, before he completely takes over the world.”  I raised an eyebrow at a frowning Light.  “Don’t agree?”

His eyes widened.  “No – I mean, yes – I mean, I agree.  Of course I agree.”  He nodded vigorously, but then gradually slowed and looked down at his shoes.  “But…you know…I’ve been thinking a lot about it the last couple of weeks, and…there’re some thigs I admire about Kira.  Not what he’s doing, of course, mass murder is unforgivable – but some things.”

Beside him, L had lifted his head and was gazing intently at his cuffmate, one finger to his mouth.  I shot him a warning look – _don’t interfere_ – and as he nodded, said to Light, “What do you mean?”

He screwed up his face, struggling to form the words.  “It’s like, I dunno…we share some values, I guess? Which doesn’t mean I’m Kira, by the way,” he added sternly, giving me a hard look.  I held up my hands in a gesture of surrender and assured him I wasn’t thinking that (even though I was).  “I just – well, if I suddenly found myself with the power to kill anyone I wanted without touching them, and I was crazy enough to use it – _which I’m not_ – the first people I’d go for would be criminals.  Sometimes – okay, a lot of the time – I think people like that are making the world rot, that we’d all be better off if they were dead.”  He had a look of real guilt on his face, as if he were confessing some long-buried secret sin. 

In spite of myself, I was moved enough to reach forward and pat his free arm.  “That’s nothing you need to worry about.  Everyone has thoughts like that sometimes.”

Light seemed suddenly shy.  “Everyone, huh? Even you? Sorry, it’s just that from the way you talk sometimes, it’s like you never want anyone to die.  Even criminals.”

“I’m human, Light- _kun_.  I try to be good and do the right thing, but sometimes I fall short.  And it’s the same with you, right?”  He nodded reluctantly.  “Right.  It’s the same with everyone else, too.  All good people make mistakes, just like all bad people have good qualities.”

I leaned back, feeling my expression harden.  “But Kira doesn’t realize that.  He thinks that a person can only be either all good or all evil.  There’s only black and white in his world.  And what’s more, if he’s given you a label, then that’s it.  You can’t ever shake it.  A good person will only ever be good; a bad person can’t ever be better.  Even though humans are constantly changing and evolving as time passes, Kira doesn’t think anyone will ever get out of the rut they started in.  It’s a child’s view, innocent if it wasn’t so deadly.

“So to answer your question, I think Kira is to be pitied.  He has no faith in humanity or in this world, which I know from experience is incredibly lonely and painful.  I bet, if he never got this power, he would have ended up committing suicide.  That’s a tragedy for anyone, but for a brilliant mind like him, it’s a downright waste.”

A heavy silence settled over the room.  Light and L together, work and sugar abandoned, stared at me.  It was hard to read their expressions.  I met Light’s gaze, challenging him, letting him know that I was here, I could hear him, I understood what he was going through.  He looked away, biting his lip again.

And then his brow furrowed and his mouth pressed into a tight line.  “Hey, check it out,” he said after a moment, gesturing to the news monitor.

I followed his gaze.  Yet another of Kira’s victims had been found, this time a twenty-three-year-old woman.  Two days ago, she had plead guilty to the murder of… _huh_?

“Hang on,” I muttered, opening my laptop.  The databases and computing power of the headquarters’ technology was second to none, better than even the CIA’s; it took no time at all to find what I was looking for.  “Here we go.  That woman had no record prior to that murder, not even a traffic ticket.  And the guy she killed –”

“– was raping her,” Light finished, reading over my shoulder.  “It was self-defense.  Up until now, Kira hasn’t killed anyone acting in self-defense.  Only people who were acting willfully, whom he thinks really deserves it.” L had not gotten up or turned to look, but he had cocked his head in our direction to hear better.

Light and I both jumped on the database, sifting through Kira’s victim list via news archives.  We continued to find abnormalities in the profile.  An old woman who had struck someone accidentally with her car.  A businessman who had not only delivered a contrite apology in court but had also donated over three-quarters of his wealth to charity to atone.  A store clerk who killed a would-be robber.  All people the old Kira would have judged leniently, and all being killed within twenty-four hours of their announcement on the news.  What’s more, these abnormalities went back three months, the first one taking place two weeks after Light’s confinement. 

“Kira’s profile changed,” I said softly, a slow grin spreading over my face.  “It’s like he’s not paying attention to the crimes at all – he’s just killing criminals for the sake of killing criminals.”  That meant one thing: this was a brand-new Kira, one that appeared after Light went into confinement and one who had a different goal in mind.  This lead credence to L’s power-jumping theory; it was still possible that Light and Misa could have been acting as Kira at one point.  I shot a triumphant beam at L, who smiled and ducked his head in a grateful bow.

Light, naturally, had a different focus.  “Clearly, killing criminals isn’t the goal of this Kira.  Ideals, making the world better…none of that matters to him.”  This he said almost angrily, with his hands balled into fists; he had gotten worse at hiding his emotions, too.  “So his motive is something tangible, that would probably benefit himself, and the criminals are just a front to draw attention away from that.”

We needed less than five seconds to solve it.  “Money,” we said together.  Without needing to communicate, we divided the work.  Light checked the global stock market, while I started searching for any prominent businessmen or entrepreneurs who had died of heart attacks since the confinement.  L did not offer assistance, but scooted his chair in between ours so that he could look over our shoulders at both screens.  Slow progress, but progress nonetheless. 

As the sun came up, we found it.  Three CEOs of differing industries and nationalities had died of heart attacks in the last three months: Jason Walterson of Walterson Industries, Emile St. Laurent of AQZ, and Yotsuba Ryoma of the Yotsuba Group.  Following the sudden passings of their CEOs, stock in Walterson Industries and AQZ had plummeted so severely that there was fear the companies would grow bankrupt.  Yotsuba’s stock, however, was slowly but steadily increasing.  There was no new product on the market or change in business practices that was increasing investor confidence; rather, every other competitor in all of Yotsuba’s varying industries seemed to be performing poorly.  A quick hack into the company database revealed that the salaries of all executives had increased, creating a trickle-down effect.  Even the security guard was taking frequent vacations.

We had him.  Kira was either working for or otherwise affected by the Yotsuba Group.

“Yes!” I shouted, heedless of the hour.  “We nailed the little shit!”  I swiveled in Light’s direction and raised a hand.  “High-five!” He immediately acquiesced, forgetting himself in his elation.  His eyes were brighter than I’d ever seen them, and he had a smile, a real smile, lighting up his face.

“Well done, you two,” L said, inappropriately sober.  “You work very well together.”

I turned to him, grinning playfully.  “What, are you jealous? Then quit sulking and get your rear back in gear!”

“How ‘bout it, Ryuzaki?” Light added, holding out a hand toward the monitor in presentation.  “Ready to get to work?”

He smiled.  “Indeed I am.”

-

-October 5th, 2004-

“No.  No way, absolutely not, completely out of the question, José.” 

“I don’t like it any more than you do,” L replied patiently.

“The hell you don’t! How could you possibly know how much I don’t like it? You weren’t _betrayed_ by that son of a bitch!”

“‘Betrayal’ isn’t really the right word, is it? He was never really working for you to begin with.”

“Quit injecting logic into my rage!”

Once again, I had cuffed Light to my towel rack and was having a private conversation with L, this time in the server room on the first underground floor, and this time at L’s request.  We had deactivated the elevator and shut down the cameras so that no one could stumble upon us by accident – or, as it turned out, investigate the source of the yelling.

In the wake of our fingering Yotsuba, L had decided to expand our strike force using his own network of criminal contacts, as I was the only one with the combination of field experience, L’s trust, and less-than-flourishing moral code.  Anticipating infiltration and direct contact, he had pulled two names out of his hat: Codename “Wedy,” a professional cat burglar, and Codename “Aiber,” a successful con man – AKA Thierry Morrello, my foster brother and one-time savior.  I had not spoken to him since I found out he was L’s man, and needless to say, I was not happy about his inclusion.

“How can you not see how this could be a problem for me? That fucker took me in and pretended to care about me, only to turn right around and spy on me for you!”

“That’s more my doing than his.  I gave the orders, after all, and I had no intention of violating your privacy – only checking up on you.”

“Which you did by violating my privacy!”

L ignored my interjection, as usual.  “And besides, I doubt he was at any time ‘pretending’ to care about you.  He always asks about you, and the last time we spoke, he expressed a particular excitement at seeing you again.  Moreover, as I understand it, he looked after you in your formative years much better than Roger did.”

“Only because I – no, because Eraldo Coil was his cash cow!” I crossed my arms and defiantly lifted my chin.  “Ryuzaki, I’m sorry, but if he’s coming, then I’m going.  I can’t stand being in the same time zone as that guy, let alone under the same roof.”

“You’re overreacting, Casey.”

“No, I’m not! This is the exact appropriate amount of reacting.  You know if you’d try empathizing for once.”

That was an unfair jab and I regretted it as soon as I said it, but L brushed it off without responding.  “That’s not what I meant.  You are _deliberately_ overreacting.  I understand your anger – because I empathize with you – but I’ve never known it to be this intense.  Personal feelings aren’t a factor here.  No, I think you’re trying to prevent his coming because he is a criminal and you fear for his safety.”  When I didn’t answer, he leaned closer, observing me like I was particularly interesting petri dish.  “Am I wrong?”

“…No.”  I huffed in irritation and began pacing, speaking quickly to try and relieve the nervous energy.  “No, okay? You’re not wrong.  Aiber is an asshat and a sleazeball, but he brought me out of the House and did right by me.  I’d probably be dead if it wasn’t for him.  And I don’t want to repay the favor by luring him to his death.  I mean, he’s never used his real name on anything, but what if this Kira has the same eye power as Misa- _chan_?”

L let me pace and rant myself out, his eyes moving back and forth like a Newton ball to follow me.  At last, when I had calmed down somewhat, he stepped forward and – voluntarily, with only the briefest pause – took my hand.  “Please don’t worry, Casey.  While your brother is here, he is under my protection.  I promise, I will take extreme precautions and utilize him only when absolutely necessary.  Since I empathize with your feelings, I shall avoid putting him in a lethal situation.”

I sighed.  “Okay, okay, I’m sorry for saying you don’t empathize.  And thanks, Ryuzaki.  Really, I mean it.”

“I know you do.  Since I emp –”

I grabbed the sides of his head and kissed him to shut him up.  When I let go and made to step away, he pulled me back in.  His technique was gradually improving, despite our lack of practice time.  Whatever Misa had told him, he seemed to be taking it to heart; our encounters left me increasingly dizzy and buoyant.  This time, when we resurfaced, I felt honestly lightheaded and had to grip him in an embrace to keep myself upright.  He hugged me back without reserve, pressing his forehead against mine and closing his eyes in contentment.

“You are getting so good at this,” I murmured.  We were so close together that I could feel his heartbeat in my chest, and its rapid acceleration at my words made me smile. 

His voice, though, was maddeningly calm.  “Amane- _san_ will be glad to hear her tutelage wasn’t wasted on me.”

“Hey, don’t tell her that.”

“It’s not a secret anymore.  And she asked for regular reports.”

“Screw her, she’s a suspect.  She wears the cuffs in this relationship.  And what exactly did she say to you, anyway?”

“She said not to tell you what she said.”

“You are hilarious.  I’m just about dying of laughter.”

“You should kiss me again, before I make another joke.”

-

Two days later, the reinforcements arrived together.  Wedy was a Caucasian blonde in her thirties, with tobacco stains under her manicured nails and an expensive fur coat despite the heat.  Even inside, she refused to take off her sunglasses.  Aiber was Aiber, exactly the same as he had been two years ago in the hospital, if a little better-groomed.  He winked at me as he came in but said nothing – no use tipping off Wedy that we knew each other.

I was the only one there to greet them at the front entrance.  L hadn’t told the rest of the Taskforce they would be coming, partially to protect their identities and partially because he knew the rest of the team, particularly Chief Yagami, would object to working with wanted criminals.  I expected that I, or at least Mr. Wammy, would need to deactivate the security system for them, but to my surprise, they were walking in just as I was coming down.  Wedy, apparently, was considering this a job interview and had disabled the system herself from the outside in order to exhibit her skills.

I let out a low whistle.  “Very impressive.”

She shrugged one bony shoulder.  “I was slower than usual.  This one –” She nodded at a smirking Aiber.  “– was distracting me.”

“Hey, is it my fault you bent over to look at the wiring? You can’t expect me not to comment on a view as spectacular as that.  It would be like looking out over Paris from the Eiffel Tower and just playing with your phone.”

I rolled her eyes (I had the feeling Wedy did, too, behind her glasses), but otherwise paid only enough attention to shake his hand like we’d never met before.  “Welcome to the Kira Taskforce Headquarters, both of you.  I’m Casey Watson, another one of L’s employees.  On behalf of our mutual boss, I can’t thank you enough for coming all this way and putting yourselves at risk like this.”  They assured me in flawless, unaccented Japanese that it was no trouble, and confirmed when I asked that neither of them had ever met L in person.  “I thought so.  Well, you’ll know him when you see him.  He’s the one who looks the least like L.” 

I started to lead them to the command center, but Aiber held up a hand to stop me.  “Hang on, missy.  I’ve got some questions for you.”  He turned to Wedy.  “Why don’t you go on ahead, sweetheart? We’ll be along.”  She pursed her lips in distaste, but carried on down the hallway alone.

Once the clicks of her heels faded away, Aiber wrapped me in a bone-crushing hug before I could retreat. “It’s been too long, _ma chérie_! You’re as beautiful as ever.  But, _mon Dieu_ , how much weight you’ve lost! Are they feeding you?” He had switched seamlessly to French, which I knew more a fact none of our Japanese colleagues understood (Light had a few working phrases, but had never taken formal lessons and was only interested in English enough to pursue on his own). 

I grudgingly returned the embrace.  “I burn energy faster than I can take it in.  It’s been a hard nine months.”

“I can imagine.”  He stepped back and gave me a once over, unblemished brow creasing in concern.  “Are you sure you’re all right, Camille – sorry, Casey?”

“I’ll be fine.  More importantly, are you sure about this? It’s a big risk.”

He gave a Gallic shrug.  “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.  Anything for my adorable little sister.”  I must have cringed, for his cocky smile slid off his face.  “What’s wrong now? Oh, don’t tell me you’re still mad about that whole report thing.”

“Of course I’m still mad! You sold me out!”

He shrugged again.  “I did, and I won’t apologize for it.  It’s what I do, _n’est-ce pas_? If it’s any consolation, you were worth a very handsome fee.”  His smile turned wicked.  “Speaking of which, is this L fellow a looker or not? I’ve been fantasizing about his face for years.”

“Ew.  Not by your standards, no.”

“How about _your_ standards?”

“…”

He laughed.  “Aha, thought so! You lit up like a Christmas tree as soon as I mentioned him.  Good for you, _ma chérie_!” He leaned in conspiratorially and gave a sneaky smile that would put Misa to shame.  “So, take him to bed yet? Ow, hey, watch the face! How d’you expect me to woo this Yotsuba exec with a shiner?”

“It’ll invoke sympathy.”

“Very funny.”  He wrapped an arm around my shoulder, equally showing affection and locking my arms in place.  “Really, _petite_ , I’m ecstatic for you.  You deserve it.  And this means at least a little good came out of my spying, right?”

“Yeah, I guess…thanks, Aiber.  And thank you for coming here.  Really.”

He squeezed my shoulders.  “What are underlings for?” He gestured with his free hand down the hallway in which Wedy had disappeared.  “Now, shall we get to work, Mademoiselle Coil?”

I didn’t bother correcting him.  “After you, Monsieur Coil.”

 


	26. 4.10: Face to Face and Hand in Hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death Note (c) 2003 Ohba Tsugumi and Obata Takeshi. Another Note: The Los Angeles BB Murder Cases (c) 2006 Nisio Isin. All rights reserved.

**Chapter 10: Face to Face and Hand in Hand**

-October 8th, 2004

I liked Matsuda.  Really, I did.  His smile was infectious and his optimism endearing.    
If nothing else, he knew how to make me laugh, sometimes being the only source of cheer in this long dark nightmare of an investigation (whether the cause was a well-timed joke or an untied shoelace).  And unlike my esteemed colleagues, I still remembered what it felt like being the dumbest person in the room, and so I didn’t hold his density against him. 

But once in a while, he made me want to strangle him with his own necktie.  This was one of those times.

Having discovered that several high-level Yotsuba executives met in secret every Friday night, after which followed the Kira deaths beneficial to Yotsuba, we told the rest of the team and instructed them not to make a move without our say-so.  Alongside everyone else, Matsuda agreed – and then that very evening, he abandoned his post at Misa’s film set and snuck in to Yotsuba himself.  A mere twenty minutes later, Mr. Wammy received a distress signal from Matsuda’s belt, and after the tried-and-true espionage method of calling and pretending to be a drunk friend (the part of which being impressively played by a rather miffed L), we determined that he was now face to face with the suspicious execs and ran the risk of one of them alerting Kira that he might have overheard their secret meeting.  In just twenty minutes, not only had he put himself in mortal danger, but he had completely nuked both our carefully-thought-out infiltration and the element of surprise for any future endeavors.

Matsuda, you idiot.

We had to work fast to recover our man.  Taking advantage of his real-life position as Misa’s manager, Matsuda had apparently written off his trespassing as an attempted sales pitch to get his number-one client a sponsorship deal for Yotsuba’s new commercial.  We decided to go off of that, having Misa meet up with her manager for an interview with the execs and then invite him back to “her apartment” for a party, where we would discreetly extract Matsuda before he could be killed.  Misa agreed and even volunteered to round up several young and beautiful women from her agency to serve as party guests (read: distract the execs).  One by one, they showed up at headquarters, each wearing the same-styled skimpy dress in several bright, feminine colors.  I showed them up via the back entrance to Misa’s rooms, which a grumbling Aizawa and a surprisingly-complacent Mogi had already decorated and supplied with alcohol. 

Misa arrived with her guests in tow about thirty minutes later.  She set her girls to work, and before long the party was in full swing, all but one of the eight execs having completely forgotten about Matsuda (the eighth kept following him around the room, evidently acting as some sort of bodyguard).  So far, everything was going according to plan – until Misa excused herself, called me from the elevator, and asked me to meet her in my rooms.  I hurried after her, feeling a vague sense of dread and wondering where the hell the plan had gone wrong.

There was nothing wrong with the plan.  There was, however, a very significant something wrong with Misa’s head.

“Ta-da!” she crowed as I stepped off the elevator.  “I got one for you, too!”  She was holding up a hot-pink copy of the agency’s apparently-standard party going attire, identical to her own.  The outfit in question was a two-piece, consisting of a _mini_ miniskirt and a halter top with a heart-shaped hole cut in the bust.  From head to toe, it left absolutely nothing to the imagination.

I took one look at the strips of fabric and tried to hightail it back into the elevator.  Once again showing off that incredible strength for such a tiny woman, Misa yanked my wrist and dragged me back into the room.

“Come on!” she whined.  “We need to get that big guy off Matsu’s back, don’t we? None of the other girls are his type, I guess, so let’s send you in there! You’re prettier than, like, half the girls in there anyway.”

“I am _not_ wearing that.  You and your friends may wear what you like, and I won’t judge anyone for it.  But there is no way in this or any lifetime that I am waltzing half-naked into a room full of potential serial killers.  A _bikini_ has more fabric than that.”

“Aw, are you shy? Don’t worry, you’ll look super sexy!”

“That is _not_ what I’m worried about.”

“But aren’t they watching on the cameras downstairs? Don’t you want your boyfriend to see how cute you’ll look in this outfit?”

I spluttered, feeling my face color in a mixture of embarrassment and outrage.  To be perfectly honest, I had no idea whether I wanted him to see or not.  He’d never even seen me in a tank top before; I was afraid too much skin might break his shut-in brain.  Misa, however, took my incoherent noises for approval and started to pull my shirt over my head. 

“H-Hey, quit it!” I grabbed the bottom of my shirt and tried to pull it back into place.

“Come _on_ already!” Misa huffed.  “They’re gonna wonder why I’ve been gone so long! This is for Matsu’s sake, right?”

“Well, yeah, but –”

“But nothing! Go on and show Ryuzaki how lucky he is!”

I paused, once again thrown off guard by the comment.  Bad move – with a gleeful yell, Misa yanked the shirt out of my grasp and pulled it up over my head.  “Aha! See, what’d I tell you? Your body is super n – oh…”

She broke off, eyes bulging like golf balls.  I hurriedly snatched back my shirt and hugged it to my body, but it was too late.  She’d already spotted what I’d been so desperate to hide – the pale spiderwebbing of the bullet scar on my belly, B’s memento.  

I turned around, vision blurring as the old ache started up again.  “I was shot.  Two years ago.  I haven’t worn anything without a midriff since.  I get changed with the lights off.  I don’t – I don’t want to think about it.”  My hands started to shake, and I gripped my shirt tighter to try and steady them.  “I can’t…have children.”  A clear drop fell onto the worn fabric, and I furiously wiped my eyes with one hand. 

Something warm and heavy knocked into my back, wrapping around my bare waist.  Misa was hugging me, and judging by the rivulets running down my torso, she was crying, too.  “I’m sorry, Casey- _chan_!” she wailed.  “I’m so sorry!”

“That’s okay…you didn’t know…”

We took a few minutes to compose ourselves.  Then Misa wiped her eyes (her makeup was magically untouched – oh, for the secrets of the modeling industry!) and smiled timidly.  “You know, now that I think of it, I’m not sure those gross old men would like to see your abs anyway.  I mean, they’re super badass and you’re a total warrior princess, but it’s not real sexy, you know? I bet I can find a full top.”

She started rummaging through a garment bag and resurfaced a minute later with a longer top, though still with that heart-shaped hole.  Too spent to argue and conscious of the time, I stripped down (reluctantly forgoing my bra, as it would be visible through the hole) and wriggled into the tiny outfit.  After quickly fixing our makeup, she took me by the hand and lead me down to the party.

“Sorry for the wait!” she shouted as she pushed open the door.  “Look who showed up fashionably late! Say hi to Casey- _chan_ , everyone!”

The other models, apparently under instruction, greeted me enthusiastically and started crowding around me, asking questions and commenting on how well the outfit suited me.  All eight execs were staring at me – or rather, a few very specific parts of me.  Matsuda’s bodyguard, a white-haired twenty-something, actually dropped his jaw.  I shuddered and fought the urge to cover up. 

My scar wasn’t the only reason I’d wanted to cover up.  Morrello may have taught be how to bond with a mark like a seasoned grifter, but just because I was _capable_ of socializing didn’t mean I _liked_ it.  After all, I was at my most basic level an enormous egghead, and eggheads and parties historically didn’t jive too well.  On top of that, I had spent the past ten years of my life doing everything I could to avoid being seen; to be the center of attention was not just unfamiliar, it went against every screaming instinct in me.  It wasn’t as though I’d never honey-trapped a guy before, but the last time had been a long time ago.  When I was single.  It shouldn’t have made a difference, but even pretending to be interested in these creeps felt filthy and wrong when I remembered the earnest look in L’s eyes.

Still, it wasn’t as bad as I’d anticipated.  After the disruption of my interest, most of the execs went back to their own pursuits.  Two of them, a younger man with long black hair and a bald man who shared Wedy’s propensity for indoor sunglasses, spent some time talking to me, but they were neither crude nor impolite, simply making casual small talk.  The black-haired one, it turned out, had been born in America and wanted to take the opportunity to brush up on his rusty English with a bone fide foreigner.  The bald one didn’t like parties either, and seemed pretty uncomfortable with the half-naked women draping themselves over them.  I kept them occupied, relying mostly on my electric personality but not forgetting to lean subtly forward or arrange my posture to highlight certain other aspects when appropriate.  No harm in being careful. 

Meanwhile, Matsuda’s white-haired bodyguard continued to gape openly at me.  I swallowed my revulsion and tried to wave him over a few times, but the other two execs scowled at him and shook their heads, and he would shrink back despondently.  It was during one of these little exercises that a visibly-shaking Matsuda was able to lurch away in faux-drunkenness, mumbling about the bathroom.  Mission complete. 

He did not return for another five minutes, during which time I assumed L was filling him in on the plan.  I had full knowledge, of course – in fact, I’d come up with about half of it – so I was not surprised when Matsuda kicked the door in and stumbled across the room with a dopey grin on his face, marveling (for the benefit of his captors) at how drunk he was.  When he staggered out onto the front porch and began hand-balancing on the front rail, I shrieked alongside the other girls but discreetly gave Matsuda a thumbs up when I caught his eye.  And when he nodded and “accidentally” tumbled off the ledge, I pretended to faint, drawing just enough eyes away from the ledge in case Aiber was a few seconds behind or Mogi hadn’t pulled in the mattress in time.

Once enough shouts of “he’s dead!” had blasted the night and the first sirens began to whine, Misa worked quickly.  While I slumped on the couch to “recover,” she quickly escorted the execs and the models out the back door, promising that none of them would ever be connected to this and reminding the execs that she still wanted the endorsement.  After the noise died down and Misa had texted me the all-clear, I waited another five minutes, giving the ambulance enough time to drive covertly around the block and into the headquarters’ hidden garage.  Then I raced down the stairs to the fifteenth floor, where the mattress had been waiting to catch Matsuda. 

I arrived at the same time as Light and L, who were each rolling up a sleeve of their borrowed EMT uniforms to replace the handcuffs.  “How’d we do?” I asked as I jogged up.

L stared at me like I was a complete stranger.  “…Sorry, what?”

“Is Matsuda- _san_ an adorable smear on the pavement, or what?”

“You think I’m adorable, Casey- _san_?” a familiar and hopeful voice called out from beyond the open door.

I grinned in relief.  “Like fifteen baskets of puppies, you lucky bastard.”

“Woo-hoo!”

I turned back to the other two.  L was still giving me that blank and intense stare, while Light had removed his EMT jacket and was holding it out to me, using the other hand to cover his eyes.  I gazed at the jacket without comprehension, then let out a little yelp of horror and snatched it out of his hands.  In the heat of the moment, I’d forgotten about the dress.

Fumbling with shaky hands, I wriggled into the jacket and wrapped the open ends as far across my torso as they could go.  “Okay, you’re good, Light- _kun_.  Uh…sorry.”

He lowered his hand and smiled sheepishly.  His flush was practically glow-in-the-dark.  “N-No, _I’m_ sorry.  I, uh…I didn’t see anything, if that helps.”  Liar – there wasn’t anywhere else to look.

“I did,” L piped up.  The bemused thousand-yard stare had slid back his face, and except for the two dime-sized spots of color on his cheeks, his normal face had returned.  “Ouch,” he added dutifully as I kicked him in the shin.  Light, fully committed to his post-confinement sense of chivalry, piled on a sock in the bicep for good measure.

Once my honor had been properly defended, Matsuda shuffled out into the hallway, flanked on both sides by the exasperated-yet-relieved Yagami and Mogi.  “Well done, everyone,” L said, deliberately turning his back to me.  “And Matsuda- _san_ , well done on not dying.”

“Uh…thanks?”

Prompted by an elbow jab from Light, L continued, “How are you feeling?”

Matsuda’s smile was a little twitchy, but no less wide.  “Good, I think.”

“And what have we learned today?”

He wilted.  “…Don’t infiltrate the enemy base by myself.”

“Because…?”

“…Because I’m an idiot.”

“There you go.”  He shifted position to so that he could look at each of us in turn by only craning his neck.  “Well, now that our old plan of attack has imploded, let’s work on getting a new one.  Matsuda- _san_ , please tell me everything you heard within the Yotsuba building.  Oddly enough, your intelligence might be the key to all of this.  Yagami- _san_ , Mogi- _san_ , please join Aizawa- _san_ downstairs and get to work on damage control.  Alerting the media to the death of Amane Misa’s manager, paying off the guests, and so on.  Casey –” He paused, and this time he had the grace to avoid looking directly at me.  “Perhaps some trousers are in order.”

I aimed another kick at him before beating a hasty retreat back to my room.  If Misa turned out to be the Second Kira after all, I resolved to preside over her execution myself.

-

-October 20th, 2004-

Despite Matsuda’s colossal screw-up, we were able to move forward without too much floundering.  With those eight businessmen now concrete Kira suspects, Mogi and Aizawa compiled their life stories in search of useful information.  Using the information Matsuda had stumbled upon, Wedy able to discreetly install cameras and listening devices in the board room which hosted the execs weekly meeting.  We were able to be flies on the wall at their next meeting, which consisted of seven men wearing black armbands and one conspicuously empty chair.  Not only did we confirm from their speeches that they were at the very least connected to Kira, but we also gleaned from the conversation that they had killed far more victims than we’d previously anticipated using – unbelievably enough – illness and accidental death.  It seemed that Kira’s powers were not limited to heart attacks; he could murder in nearly every conceivable circumstance.  This opened up a whole new set of possible victims, including Naomi, whose body had not yet been recovered and whom everyone believed committed suicide.  As it turned out, suicide and death by Kira were no longer mutually exclusive.  I bit my lip and tasted blood.

What’s more, we also managed to turn my black-haired suitor, Namikawa Reiji, into our inside man by having Light call him and pretend to be L.  After having the shadow of L’s succession looming over me most of my life, the sight of someone else so effortlessly and successfully taking up the mantle, even temporarily, left a sour taste in my mouth.  Especially given that the someone in question was very likely L’s greatest enemy. 

We hit one other bump in the road: the NPA, superfluous for so long, had finally pulled the plug on the Kira investigation.  According to Yagami, who had gone to Kitamura’s office to protest, it seemed that the Yotsuba execs were bribing the NPA higher-ups and several influential politicians to shut down the investigation.  If any NPA detective continued to work the case, he would immediately be terminated.  Yagami, Mogi, and Matsuda handed in their badges without a second thought; Aizawa, however, quit the Taskforce and returned to the NPA following a disagreement with L.  Despite our rocky start, I considered us friends and was sad to see him go.  He was a good cop.

Aiber, meanwhile, had resurrected his old Coil identity to rub elbows with another one of the execs, Kida, who had hired the second-greatest detective to track down L.  In exchange for his usual exorbitant fees (which L had promised he could keep), he ran roughshod over the remaining seven, feeding them false information to keep them running in circles while we gradually furthered our own investigation.  For my part, I had mixed emotions concerning Coil’s triumphant return to the investigative world.  On the one hand, I was insulted that L and Aiber were using my old identity, upon which I had built my name and honed my detective skills, so flippantly.  On the other, the fact that the legend I created was not only still strong enough to entice Kida into buying into it, but also turning out to be a crucial factor in solving the Kira case, brought me an odd sort of pride.  Nice to know all those years in hiding hadn’t been a waste.

And then there was the icing on the cake, Amane Misa.  In spite of the debacle at her “party,” Yotsuba was indeed seriously looking at her as the spokeswoman for their latest product.  Not only that, but four out of the seven had already contacted her personal phone, asking her on dates.  Our plan, was to have Misa both infiltrate the company during one of her interviews and get close to the seven individually and by any means necessary, in the hopes that they would reveal incriminating evidence.  Misa herself objected to seducing any man other than her own boyfriend, but otherwise was willing to do anything she had to so that she could be useful to Light.

In short, except for Aizawa, everything was coming up roses.  So for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out what L’s problem was now.

Ever since Matsuda’s rescue, he seemed to have regressed back into his pre-Yotsuba ennui.  Unlike last time, though, he still spent quite a bit of time on the case.  Whenever someone asked him about some aspect of the case, he would rattle off a stream of nearly-incoherent and rather well-thought-out deductions that actually moved the investigation pretty far forward.  A small portion of his brain, at least, was devoted to doing his job.  However, he never spoke anymore unless spoken to, and he only visibly worked the case when prompted.  Much of his time was devoted to staring into space, his hunch more pronounced than usual and his lips working soundlessly on something no one could interpret.  And every time I ruffled his hair, or patted his shoulder, or even stand next to him, he would jump about a mile out of his chair and seize up completely, not even pretending to function until I had left the room altogether.  I was seriously beginning to get worried, but when I tried to ask him what was wrong, he would only shut me down curtly and go back to ignoring me.  I thought maybe it had something to do with Aizawa, but surely he would have told me about that…right?

One day, desperate, I parked my chair on the back wall, the furthest away I could possibly get from the control panel where L worked, and sent Light a text when nobody was looking.  _Has he said anything to you?_ Having spent so much time with his cuffmate, Light probably knew L pretty well by now; he might have spotted something I had missed.

The phone buzzed from its spot on the counter by Light’s elbow.  Mechanically, Light picked it up, then stiffened.  He quickly glanced over his shoulder at me, and then, after a moment’s hesitation, began to type a response.

Less than a minute later, my own phone started to buzz.  I resisted the urge to pounce immediately and took several subtle deep breaths before checking the message with forced casualness.  _No, nothing.  He keeps looking at you, though.  What did you do?_

_I didn’t do anything! And he’s not looking at me, he’s looking at his computer._

_When you’re not watching, obviously.  Look now._

“Light- _kun_ , who are you talking to?”

Light jumped and fumbled with his phone.  “No one,” he answered once he had a hold on it.  “I mean, uh…no one case-related, that is.”  He tried letting it go at that, but caved under L’s X-ray stare.  “Okay, it’s Sayu.  My little sister.  She wants to know when Dad and I get to come home.”  Behind them on the couch, Chief Yagami looked up from his stack of personnel files and looked expectantly at L.

 _Nice cover, Light._   And not too bad with the timing or technique, either.  Even with his shiny new personality, he was still an accomplished liar.  I wasn’t sure if that boded well or not. 

L was unmoved by the display of familial pining.  “Is that so? I’m very sorry, but I can’t let you go until the suspicion against you has been 100% cleared.  Yagami- _san_ , you may leave whenever you like.” 

“I’m not walking out of here without my son.”

“Yes, so you keep saying.”

The room lapsed into a tense silence again.  I stared at my laptop screen for about five minutes without reading a single word.  Quickly, almost too quickly for my eyes to register the room, I glanced up and back down without moving my head.  Sure enough, L had swiveled his chair around 180 degrees and was staring at me like he could bore a hole through my skull with his eyes alone.  He was biting his thumb with particular force today; I spotted just about all his teeth, as well as a rusty-red stain beneath his thumbnail.  When I raised my head and looked a bit more conspicuously, however, he had turned back around without my hearing him and was clacking away at the keyboard with both index fingers.  Light glanced over his shoulder, mouthed _told you_ , and returned to his own work before L noticed.

So I was the problem.  Not that that helped; I had no idea what I’d done to upset him.  Light didn’t either, nor did anyone else, apparently.

Well, almost no one else.  As the investigation picked up, Light (and, by extension, L) paid fewer and fewer visits to Misa’s room until he stopped going entirely.  Bereft of her boyfriend, Misa would occasionally grow bored enough to venture downstairs to the control room.  She never stayed long, since we were all so focused on the work rather than babysitting her, but I thought she might offer a fresh perspective since she was the best out of all of us at reading people.  After one such evening visit, I followed and stopped her about halfway up the staircase, asking in an undertone if she had any idea what was eating L.

She pursed her lips, regarding me as if I had two heads.  “What, you mean you don’t?”

“Would I have asked you if I did?”

She snickered behind one hand.  “Wow, Casey- _chan_.  For a super-genius, you’re pretty stupid sometimes, you know?”

“Don’t I know it,” I mumbled, flashing back to the House.

Misa scanned the lower floor to make sure that nobody was watching, and then invasively tucked the bottom of my shirt into my jeans, tightening the fit on my upper body.  “Okay.  I’m going to drop my phone charm, and you’re going to go pick it up.  _Bend_ down, don’t _crouch_ down like you usually do.  Go slow, and be sure to watch Ryuzaki.”  When I’d nodded, she pulled out her phone, removed one of her many phone charms (this one looked like a rag-doll version of herself), and tossed it over the railing and onto the linoleum below. 

She gasped theatrically.  “Oh, no! My favorite charm! I dropped it!” She spoke in a tone so wooden and yet so exaggerated that I marveled at her ever being cast for a film at all, let alone a leading role.  Drawn by her volume, everyone looked up at her with varying degrees of confusion and annoyance on their faces. 

“Uh…I got it, Misa- _chan_.”  Feeling incredibly awkward, I descended the stairs and walked over to the fallen charm.  Crisis averted, everyone went back to their work – everyone except for L, who was watching me cross the room without moving his head.  Now feeling like a complete idiot, I did as Misa said, slowly bending down to retrieve the charm.

_What was that?_

I froze, looking up at the control console.  L had spun his chair around so fast that the resulting air current had ruffled Light’s hair and clothes.  But before that, he had made a noise – a choking noise, like he was stifling something.  It had been so quiet that no one else seemed to have heard, and for a moment, I thought I had imagined it.  Looking at him now, though, he was clearly agitated, trembling and biting his thumb so hard that he nearly broke the skin.  Yes, he had definitely made that noise, and he was definitely bothered by something.  What, though? All I’d done was –

Oh.  _Oh_. 

I scooped the charm off the floor, straightened up, and tossed my prize up to the awaiting Misa.  Then I raced back up the stairs and down the hall to the nearest empty room, my face radiating heat.  Misa followed me, giggling all the while. 

Once we were both inside, I slammed the door, shut off the cameras with the Kill Switch, and whirled to face Misa.  “Are you telling me –?” I paused and swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry.  “Are you telling me that Ryuzaki – _our_ Ryuzaki – is feeling…you know…?”

“Horny?” Misa finished with a bluntness that made me cringe.  “Well, duh.  He’s been like this for three weeks, right? And what happened three weeks ago?”

“The party.  When Matsuda- _san_ –” I paused, and then smacked myself in the forehead.  “Oh, come _on_.”  I had been so mortified by the memory that I had completely blocked out the fact that L had seen me traipsing around half-naked.  Light, too, hadn’t mentioned the encounter, though I did occasionally catch him looking away from me a little too quickly with pink cheeks.  L, evidently, had neither forgotten nor moved on.

Misa grinned mischievously.  “Uh-huh.  He got a big ole faceful of Left- _chan_ and Right- _chan_ , and now he can’t stop thinking about them.  Or about the stuff he _hasn’t_ seen.”

I sputtered, face darkening.  “D-Don’t be silly! This is Ryuzaki we’re talking about.  I’ve known him over half my life, and not once has he ever shown any interest in…that.”

“He’s a guy, isn’t he? All guys have interest in _that_.  And all girls, too.  Don’t you?”

I didn’t answer.

“Thought so.  Look, it’s simple.  He’s your boyfriend.  He saw your bits, and now he wants to touch them.  What’s not to get?” She frowned.  “You _are_ attracted to him, right? I mean, why would you date him if you weren’t?”

There was the rub.  I was in love with L, and I had been since I was a kid; that was an immutable fact.  I desperately had wanted him to love me back, and these months we’d been in a relationship were the happiest I had ever felt in my life; that was also a fact.  And it was a fact that, though I had pined for L for years, I had only ever imagined being with him in an emotional sense.  Yes, I now craved our brief moments of attraction the way an addict would crave their next high (albeit, hopefully, in a healthier sense), but my thoughts had only ever been on kisses, on embraces, on the most basic and childlike expressions of love.  Never, not one single time, had I imagined sex with him.  Or even him having sex, period.  Try as I might, I could not conjure the image.  I mean, he could barely handle holding hands; how could he even be capable of sex, or even wanting to have sex? It just seemed so un-L-like that it was almost laughable. 

Except I’d thought he was incapable of loving someone emotionally, too.  And I’d been way off with that.  And there’d been the way he reacted downstairs…

 _Okay, fine.  Point conceded._   L was not only capable of sexual desire, he was feeling it right now.  Clearly, he didn’t want to act on it, or else he wouldn’t have sat stationary for two weeks.  So what did _I_ want? However L was choosing to approach it, he was clearly ready to take the next step.  Meanwhile, I hadn’t felt _that_ particular urge since I’d started working for L.  It had always been about the work, about making myself useful to L, about building a life together again.  My own wants were so far on the backburner that they had long since shriveled into charcoal, and I’d been completely fine with it.  All this time, I thought we’d been taking it slow to match L’s pace, but was it really me who couldn’t take the plunge?

I fell back into my training, approaching the problem with logic and reason, the way they did at the House.  How would a true Wammy kid solve this problem? The answer: they wouldn’t, because they were enormous dweebs who were so obsessed with their goal and bettering their minds that would never find themselves in this situation.  But let’s say, for the sake of the argument, that one of them did.  How would they react? Without feeling, which would betray them.  With logic and reason, the detective’s greatest tools.

I didn’t know how L was expecting to deal with his little problem, but whatever his plan was, it wasn’t working.  What’s more, it was interfering with his work.  A real Wammy kid would put the case above all else, and take the step forward to get L back on track.

And when Misa had told me what L was feeling, when I saw how deeply I’d affected him…there was a part of me that was really, really happy.  And another part that, after more than two years of dormancy, was finally starting to wake up again. Screw logic.  I knew what I wanted.

I asked Misa not to call me or come to my room for the rest of the night.  She agreed, waggling her eyebrows and smiling slyly.  I went back up to my room, straightened up a little, and – after a long moment of indecision – changed into my one nice set of lingerie.  My hands were shaking as I put my clothes back on; I couldn’t tell if it was from anticipation, nerves, or both.  All of a sudden, I was a virgin again.  I fixed myself a stiff drink and sipped it until I stopped shaking.  Then, before I changed my mind, I strode down the hall and back to the command center with my head held high. 

At the top of the staircase, I caught a glimpse of L staring blankly at his computer screen in the same position I’d left him.  The sight nearly zapped my courage, but I took a deep breath, fixed a smile on my face, and clapped my hands loudly together.  Everyone jumped and turned to look at me.  No turning back now.

“All right, folks, that’s time!” I said loudly as I descended the stairs.  “Great work, everybody.  Take the rest of the day off.”

For a moment, they all stared at me, not comprehending.  Then, all at once, they burst into protest.  How could they leave now? Every second they spent away from the case was a second wasted.  Kira wasn’t resting, so why should they? They were so close to figuring out which Yotsuba exec had the Kira connection – if they stopped now, they might never get it.  And on and on and on. 

At last, I held up my hands, silencing them.  “I know we’re at a critical point, which is all the more reason to rest while we can.  You guys are doing a great job, and we’re so close, but if we keep going at this pace, we’ll burn out.  Go home.  Go to sleep.  Get yourselves ready, and when you’ve come back, let’s sprint to the finish line and end this once and for all.”

There were a few more protests, but they were half-hearted.  When it got right down to it, they’d been pulling long nights and no days off for almost a year, and they were exhausted.  One day away from the case wouldn’t change anything, and they knew it.  Mogi and Matsuda went home; after much persuasion and a few mild threats, Yagami followed suit.  Aiber and Wedy, as an extra precaution against our two suspects, were staying in a hotel down the street.  Light, Misa, L, Mr. Wammy, and I were now the only ones left in the building. 

What can I say? I was shy, too.

With Misa holed up on her floor and Mr. Wammy keeping an eye on her in the subterranean control room, Light was now the only wild card.  We were now two and a half months into the handcuff policy, and it was clear that Light was on his last legs.  I loved L more than anything in the world, and even I found him insufferable at times.  And if he ever became truly unbearable, I could always walk away.  Light didn’t have that option; he had to put up with L’s nonsense all day, every day.  And considering his constant eating, insomnia, and general insensitivity toward others, I couldn’t even imagine how difficult it must have been to try and sleep at night with him doing whatever it is he did at night two feet away (though now, I realized with some trepidation, I was about to find out).  Add that to the constant stress of working the case and fighting off suspicion, and you ended up with a veritable truckload of exhaustion.  Light, who up until the confinement had gotten a full eight hours a night, was now sporting a pallor and eye-bags that rivaled those of his cuffmate, and he could hardly go thirty seconds without yawning.  Every once in a while, he would nod off, only to be mercilessly prodded awake by L, who was taking far too much enjoyment out of the task.

I sat down next to Light at the console and examined him closely.  His eyes were bloodshot, and judging by the way he kept pinching the bridge of his nose, he was developing a serious migraine.  “Light- _kun_ , you look exhausted.  When’s the last time you got a decent night’s sleep?”

He let out a bark of laughter and waggled his bound wrist, making the chain links clink.  “How long have these been on? How long has this case been going?”

“Welcome to law enforcement, kid.  Really, though, you ought to rest, too.  You’re our rising star, Einstein, and we need you at your best.  Go lie down.”

He sighed in frustration.  “That won’t do any good.  Every time I try to sleep, _this_ guy –” He pointed at an unresponsive L. “– wakes me up.  Either it’s the computer, or the chewing, or, hell, sometimes he just pokes me.  I think he enjoys it!”

I have no doubt that he did, or else that he was trying to make Light confess via low-grade torture. To be honest, the idea sounded very appealing.  “That is a problem,” I said, the picture of sympathy.  “Let’s see…what to do…?”  I pretended to think about it.  Light raised an eyebrow and inched backward, instantly on the defensive.  Finally, I snapped my fingers.  “Hey, that could work.  Why don’t I take the cuff off of L and put it on the bedframe? You can lie down in peace, by yourself, and I don’t have to worry about you making a break for it.”

His eyes widened, and I could practically see him salivate.  It was as though he was a desert wanderer who had just stumbled upon an oasis.  “Y-You would do that? You’re serious?”

“Of course I am – I like messing with you, but I’m not _that_ cruel.  Tell you what: I’ll give you till tomorrow morning.  You can use one of the open rooms.  We’ll have the infrared cameras rolling, of course, but no one will bother you.  Misa’s in for the night, the Taskforce has gone home, and I’ll keep L occupied.”  My voice almost cracked, and I had to clear my throat before continuing.  Beside us, L tilted his head to the side, confused.  “You’ll have more than eight hours of total peace and quiet.  How’s that sound?”

Light slid out of his chair and bowed with his head pressed against the floor, like he was a _samurai_ of old.  “You honestly have just saved my life.  I owe you my firstborn child.”

“Whoa, take it easy, straw-spinner.  I’ll settle for a confession.”

He shot up to a sitting position, practically foaming at the mouth.  “For _God’s sake_ , Casey –”

“Kidding, kidding! Jeez, you really do need a nap, don’t you? You’re getting cranky.”

I stood up, removed the key from around my neck, and unlocked L’s handcuff.  He frowned at me as I bent over him, self-consciousness forgotten in his bewilderment.  “What are you up to, Casey?” he asked. 

I smiled at him.  “I’m being nice.  You should try it sometime.  Speaking of beds, though, you wanna shuffle on up to my room real quick? I have something I want to say.”

He grew, if possible, even paler.  “Your room? Why can’t we talk here?”

“You got a problem with my room, scruffy?”

“Well, not exactly –”

“All right, then.  See you in ten.”  I tugged on the chain and led a stumbling Light up the stairs like a dog, praying my heartbeat wasn’t as loud as it seemed.

-

Light collapsed into bed fully clothed and shod, asleep before he hit the pillow.  I tucked him in like a child and clipped his open cuff to the bed frame, making sure it was positioned in such a way that it wouldn’t strangle him overnight (though I had to admit, that would be one way to solve our problem).  I shut off the lights, locked the door, and took the elevator up to my room, having reached that particular calm trance I entered before a firefight or a confrontation with a culprit.

L was waiting for me in the sitting area, examining the Winchester photo with a blank expression.  I smiled and gestured for him to follow me.  He shuffled after me, but ground to a halt on the threshold of my bedroom.  “I don’t think I should be in here,” he said quietly, nevertheless craning his neck back and forth to look around the place.

“Don’t be ridiculous.  I’m inviting you, aren’t I?”

“I see.  Pardon the intrusion, then.”  He stepped inside, at a loss for what to do.  I didn’t offer him the bed or sit down myself, so we stood in uneasy silence for what felt like ages.

At last, he cleared his throat.  “What did you want to talk about? It must be important, if you couldn’t say it in front of Light- _kun_.”

I let out a nervous little laugh – the liquid courage was beginning to wear off.  “Honestly? This is in at least the top five most important things I’ve ever said in my life.  Probably the top three.”  Curious L nodded and gestured at me to continue.  I shook my head.  “Before I say it, though, I want to make sure I’ve got all my ducks in a row.”

“Very well.  Herd away.”

I met his eyes, face set.  “Tell me the truth, Ryuzaki.  The reason you’ve been acting so distant lately – you _have_ and you know it – it’s because of what I was wearing the night we had those Yotsuba dickheads over, right?”

He didn’t answer, which was what I expected.  He also kept his eyes locked with mine, which I wasn’t.  That simple act of standing his ground gave me the push I needed to act in kind.  “I’m not angry.  Really.  Whatever it is, I don’t mind.  Nothing has to change between us if you don’t want it to.  We can forget this ever happened if you think that would be best.  This is entirely your call.”  I paused, steeling myself.  “I just want to know if it was because you were feeling embarrassed, or because you were feeling…other things.”

More silence.  He lifted his head and watched my ceiling fan slowly rotate, pupils moving from side to side as he tracked a single blade.  He nodded, more to himself than to me, like he had just come to a decision.  He made eye contact again, and then straightened his back and bowed very low.  “Please forgive me.  I’ve wronged you terribly.”

I blinked twice, stunned by both the unexpected proclamation and the fact that L’s spine could still bend properly.  “…What, for ignoring me? C’mon, you’ve done worse than that and never apologized.”

He maintained his bow, though his long-neglected back muscles were beginning to spasm in protest.  “Not that.  You…you were right.  I’ve been having thoughts lately that are…extremely inappropriate.  Disrespectful.  Unbefitting of your intellect or overall worth.  As my partner and my friend, you deserve more than that.  I can’t put into words how sorry I am.”

“…Just to be clear, we _are_ talking about sex, right?”

He flinched.  “Y-Yes.”

I laughed again, still a little incredulous.  “Jeez.  You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you, Ryuzaki? And here I thought you’d evolved past that particular instinct.”

“Of course not.  It’s a biological process experienced by over ninety percent of higher-thinking organisms.  I’m human, too.”

“Could’ve fooled me.  About the first thing, not the human thing.”  Beat.  “So you’re saying this has happened before.”  It wasn’t a question.

L nodded, still with his head down.  “Infrequently, but yes.  About eighty-five percent of the time, those sorts of thoughts disperse on their own without my reacting to them, but given the nature of the – catalyst – in this instance, I’ve had quite a bit of trouble overcoming them.  As you can imagine, your presence in the room with me only inflamed such thoughts, and so I tried dissuading you from interacting with me in the hopes that you would let me be until I’d mastered myself again.  I must apologize for that as well – it seems I only managed to cause you undue worry.”

“Eighty-five percent, huh? What happens the other fifteen percent of the time?”

I heard him swallow.  “…I have measures in place.  To…take care of the…urges.”

“Say no more.  I’m on board.”  This was turning into a very informative lecture.  I ought to start giving the man a little more credit.  Like he said, he was human.  “But this time, you’ve got Light with you all the time, so you’ve got no outlet.  Your hands are literally and metaphorically tied.”

“Only about half-literally, but yes, that would be accurate.” 

“Don’t argue semantics when we’re having show-and-tell.” 

“As I understand it, _we_ aren’t doing anything, and _I_ am only telling.  So your analogy falls flat.”

“Oh, yeah? Why don’t you straighten up and reevaluate? You look like you’re in fifteen kinds of pain.”

“A bit, yes.  Thank you.”  He gratefully returned to his normal position – and then repeated his earlier choking sound and stumbled through a 180-degree turn, tense as a tightrope.  While he’d been talking, I’d quietly slipped out of my shirt and trousers and was standing before him in only my lingerie.

“Ryuzaki, turn around.”

He shook his head so quickly it blurred.  “I don’t want to.”

“I want you to.”

“Weren’t you listening? My thoughts were incredibly disrespectful.  I don’t want to devalue what you mean to me.”

“You’re not devaluing me.  Like you said, it’s a biological process.  You can’t help yourself.”  I approached him slowly and wrapped my arms around him, pressing myself against his back.  He froze, holding his breath.  Even through the depth of his skinny frame, I could feel the frantic pounding of his pulse like it was my own.  Or was it mine? I’d lost track. 

“And I’m your girlfriend, remember?” I went on in a low voice.  “If you can’t have those thoughts about me, who can you have them about?”

His throat creaked and his lips fumbled as he tried to find his voice.  He tried wriggling out of my grasp, but I tightened my hold on him, determined to make my point.  “P-Please don’t torment me,” he croaked at last.  “We both know that this is mere patronization.  I don’t delude myself into believing I am anything less than repulsive in that sense, that someone like me can inspire…that…in someone like you.  The fact that you have emotional attachment for me beyond friendship flew in the face of all reason; p-physical desire is impossible.”

“ _Improbable_.  Not impossible.  And you know what I always say about improbable and impossible, _and_ my track record with long odds.”  I kissed the side of his neck, delighting in the sensation of his skin quivering beneath my sensitive lips.  I let my hands drop, only about an inch, but far enough to get the message across.  His breath hitched in his throat.  “You are not repulsive, L,” I whispered firmly.  “You are the complete and total opposite of that.”

He didn’t react, and for a moment, I thought he hadn’t heard me.  Then I picked up a slight hiss of air, and I peeked over his shoulder to see his mouth working furiously at something I couldn’t hear, his eyes squeezed tightly shut.  Whatever it was he was saying, it wasn’t in Japanese or even English.  “What the hell are you doing?”

He paused and swallowed again, Adam’s apple bobbing painfully.  “…I am reciting the Fibonacci sequence by every sixteenth integer in Russian.”

“Of course you are.  For why?”

“It…it’s a focus exercise.”

I stared at him.  “Are you telling me you use Fibonacci to kill your boners?”

“Could you not say that, please?”

“What, boner?”

“ _Stop it_.”

“Why should –?” I glanced down and smirked.  “Oh, hey, lookit that.  He comes when he’s called.  How well-trained!”

This time he did manage to escape.  I thought he’d make a break for the elevator (or at the very least the bathroom), but he stood rooted in place just a few steps from me, swaying slightly.  I closed the distance, put my hands on his upper arms, and guided him around to face me.  His pupils had gone very wide, and his nostrils were flaring as he struggled to take in enough oxygen to pacify his heartbeat. 

“You _have_ been listening to me, right? You don’t have to bottle it up anymore, and you don’t have to take care of it yourself.  The whole point is that I can do that for you.  That I _want_ to do it for you.” This was true; as we’d been talking, I’d felt again the ache in my belly, the familiar throbbing, a dizziness that had nothing to do with exhaustion.  I had grown so heated that I could outlast a furnace.  I pecked his lips, deliberately pulling back as he leaned in.  “If you genuinely don’t want to, then that’s fine.  Like I said, it’s your call, and I’ll respect it.  But don’t think you have to hold back on my account, all right?”

I kissed him lightly, an unspoken question passing between us.  He still stood statuesque, unresponsive to my touch.  I stepped back, disappointed.  Then I was on the bed, knocked flat on my back, with L on top of me kissing me for all he was worth, nipping my lips and sucking at my tongue.  When he ran out of breath, he buried his face in the side of my neck, shaking so hard that the whole bed rattled.  One hand was hovering a mere centimeter above my bra, and one knee had lodged itself between my legs and was pressed up against me.  I started shaking myself, and this time, nerves weren’t a factor.

“This is your own fault,” he murmured hoarsely against my neck.  “If you end up not liking it, then remember you started it.  I haven’t – done this before.”

I snorted.  “Yeah, I figured.  Watari give you the talk yet?”

“I know the basic mechanics, yes.”

“Congratulations, you’ve exceeded my expectations.”

“Don’t tease me.”

“You think _that_ ’s teasing? I’ll show you teasing.”  I gripped his shoulders and rolled over, flipping our positions.  “Take notes, love, this’ll be on the test.”

What happened next was an enormous blur, with only a few key moments standing out in my oxytocin-hazed brain.  Tracing the outline of L’s ribs and wishing he would eat more.  Giggling uncontrollably as L struggled with the logistics of my bra clasps, then finally relenting when he pouted like a child.  The whimpers and moans he tried so hard to stifle as my tongue set to work.  Tasting sugar and salt and strawberries.  Feeling him arch and twist beneath me and knowing it was me causing it.  And the all-consuming, frenzied need to decrease the distance even more, to get closer, closer, _closer_ –

And then the fog cleared, and it was over.  I found myself on the bed, drenched in sweat and gasping for breath.  L was in my arms, face buried in my chest, clinging to my torso like a baby primate clinging to its mother.  He was still shuddering, and I had the strong suspicion the liquid rolling down my skin was tears.  I looked up – somehow, his pants had ended up draped over the ceiling fan.  I looked to the right, at the clock on my nightstand – just a hair under three minutes.  Not bad for a beginner.  It had felt like hours. 

I cleared my throat, the sound cracking painfully through the silence.  “Uh…sorry.  I think I got a little carried away back there.”

“You don’t say,” L mumbled without lifting his head.  His voice sounded faint and far away.  On impulse, I reached in and started stroking his hair.  This time he didn’t flinch.

“You holding up okay? You’re quivering like jello.”

“I am a little overstimulated.”

“Again, sorry.  Huh…you probably haven’t gotten that much exercise in years.”

“The last time would have been playing tennis with Light- _kun_ at the university.”

“…Okay, rule number one, do not mention Yagami Light in bed.”

“I thought rule number one was don’t look in the bottom drawer of your nightstand.”

“This is the Ultra Rule Number One that supersedes all past and future rule number ones.”

“Understood.” Pause.  “You probably aren’t – satisfied yet, are you? You’re used to a different level of performance.”

“You are my first virgin, but you’re also my first guy I’ve been genuinely in love with, so it balances out.”  I didn’t tell him that the ache in my belly hadn’t quite subsided.  “Really, you did well for a first-timer.  We’re all clueless in the beginning.  Practice is what makes you better, just like shaving time off how long it takes you to solve a case.”

“Practice…” He lifted his head and looked at the clock.  “How long did you say you would let Light- _kun_ sleep?”

I raised an eyebrow and smirked.  “You could barely handle once.  You seriously wanna go again?”

“Just a question,” he replied innocently. 

“Till morning.  I didn’t set specifics, but I think the others will be back at eight.  That’s when Aiber and Wedy are supposed to come in.”

He frowned at the clock, calculating.  In absence of a thumbnail to bite, given that his hands were otherwise occupied, he took to chewing on his lower lip.  “Results vary between test subjects, of course, and I have no personalized data to use, as I’m sure you’ve guessed, but the average refractory period for a man of my age and weight would be about twenty minutes.  Which, given how much time we spent on the first attempt, would give us about twenty more tries.”

I choked.  “Jesus Christ, Ryuzaki! Forget Kira, that’ll give us _both_ heart attacks!”

“What happened to the Ultra Rule Number One?”

I stopped stroking his hair and flicked the side of his head.

“Ouch.  Sorry.”

“Mm-hmm.” 

“How many do you think, then, if not twenty?”

“…At least once more.  It’s a case-by-case basis.  Ask me again after that.”

“I will.  See you in eighteen minutes.”  He nuzzled back into my chest.  I felt his lips form silent words against my skin, and I smiled as I deciphered them.  _I love you, Chie._

 

 


	27. 4.11: Awakening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for 25+ kudos and 300+ hits!
> 
> Death Note (c) 2003 Ohba Tsugumi and Obata Takeshi. Another Note: The Los Angeles BB Murder Cases (c) 2006 Nisio Isin. All rights reserved.

**Chapter 11: Awakening**

-October 28th, 2004-

I have no idea how she did it, but Misa came through for us.  Not only did she, while interviewing for the commercial gig, figure out which of the execs was Kira, but she had also tricked him into confessing his true identity to her.  When we grilled her, she told us that he had mentioned to her at the party that he’d do anything to marry her.  Having gotten him alone on a “date,” she casually confessed to being the Second Kira and informed him that she would only marry Kira.  So he had confessed.  It seemed inconsequential, a dirty old man grasping at straws.  But then Misa told us that she’d made him promise, in order to prove his identity to her, that he stop the killings for one month.  The next Friday, as promised, the Yotsuba conference room was empty, and no new victims were found that weekend.

We had him, almost eleven months after the first reported victim.  Kira – or at least, the current Kira – was Higuchi Kyosuke, head of Yotsuba’s technology department. 

We worked fast.  The plan was to lure Higuchi out into the open, have him start to use his power so we could learn how he killed, and then arrest him before he could hurt anyone else.  To do this, we booked a primetime slot at Sakura TV and set up a fake broadcast, by the end of which Kira’s true identity would be revealed.  No one paid attention to Sakura TV anymore, since they had been running ratings-bait Kira specials since the Second Kira incident – only Higuchi would respond, which would prove his guilt.  And the star of the show would be Matsuda, whom Higuchi suspected of having overheard their meeting and whose face would be “accidentally” revealed during the broadcast.  It was incredibly risky, and if we were just a second too late at any stage of the plan, Matsuda would be killed.  He knew that, and had volunteered anyway.

Wedy had installed cameras and bugs in Higuchi’s many cars, and I could hack into the security system of just about any building in the prefecture.  The former NPA detectives and our two consultants were at their stations in the field.  With these, we remaining four tracked Higuchi’s progress during the broadcast, first to Yoshida Productions (Misa’s agency) in search of the personnel file on “Matsui Taro,” then to the office of “Matsui’s” former acting agency for the record of his “real name.”  We’d planted all the evidence, of course, and watched with baited breath as Higuchi scanned the file, wrote something down in a black notebook, and strolled back to his car, far more relaxed than before.

Less than a minute later, however, the panic returned.  “Damn, why didn’t he die!?”

I exchanged a confused look with L.  “Did he already try killing Matsuda? All he did was write his name down for later!”

“Perhaps the notebook is the key?” L suggested, speaking around a spoonful of ice cream.

Light scoffed.  “Don’t be stupid, Ryuzaki.  You can’t kill someone just by writing their name in a notebook.  It’s completely impossible, not to mention ridiculous.”

Beside me, Misa stiffened.

Higuchi continued to rave in his empty car for a few minutes, then broke off and lowered his head, considering something.  After a minute, he nodded and lifted his head.  “Rem, let’s make the deal.”  He was all alone, but the proper noun meant he wasn’t talking to himself.  L wondered if he was talking to a Shinigami; we ignored him.  The deal, though, was obvious: he wanted B and the Second Kira’s eye power.  He hadn’t had it up until now, since he’d needed the personnel files, but now that both avenues had failed him, he was falling back on his last option.  As to what he was trading away…I couldn’t even begin to guess.

Higuchi drove off in the direction of the TV station, and Light and L got ready to move themselves, planning to meet up with the others at the arrest site.  I started to follow them, but L blocked my path and shook his head.  “Please stay here and look after Amane- _san_ , Casey.”

“Can’t we just tie her to a chair or something?”

“Perhaps, but you’re staying either way.  It’s too dangerous.”

I flew into a rage.  “You’ve got to be kidding me! I’ve been in this for a year, and you want to bench me _now_? Don’t I deserve to see this through as much as you? And what if something happens? You need me to protect you! How d’you think I would feel if you got hurt, or worse, and I could’ve prevented it?”

L was resolute.  “Please, Casey.  Do this for me.  I beg you.”

Struck by the desperation in his voice and eyes, I grudgingly agreed.  They both left, taking the one of the helicopters for transportation and a masked Mr. Wammy for backup.  There were no security cameras in the broadcast studio, so I was blind and deaf as well as lamed.  It turned the monitors to every news channel I could think of, and caught a glimpse of several police cars – police cars! They weren’t cowards after all – chasing Higuchi’s sports car before the feeds were cut, probably at L’s request.  I took to pacing the floor, raving as well as Higuchi and ignoring Misa’s attempts to soothe me.  I tried calling L and Light, only to hear their tinny generic ringtones from the far end of the control board – they’d deliberately left without them.  Twice I had to run to the bathroom and vomit, so rampant was my anxiety.

At last, _at last_ , the doors slid open and the strike force returned.  Everyone was there – even Aizawa was with them, having flown in the face of his superiors and mobilized the police alongside his old friend Ide – and almost everyone was unharmed.  One of Higuchi’s bullets had grazed Yagami’s arm, and Matsuda was in the process of having a full-blown panic attack, but neither condition was serious enough to warrant a trip to the hospital.  And yet Higuchi was nowhere to be seen, and every last one of them was sporting a pale, agitated face.

“What happened?” I asked apprehensively, looking from person to person.  “Where’s Higuchi?”

“Dead,” Yagami said shortly, gritting his teeth against the pain in his arm.  “Heart attack.”

“It appears we have yet another Kira,” L added.  The skin around both thumbs was broken and matted with dried blood; he was abnormally stressed out.

I swore loudly, and several of the detectives winced (Aiber tried to smile approvingly, but it came out more like a grimace).  “Sorry.  Did he confess? Did he say how he killed?”

“Yes and yes,” L replied.  “We recovered the murder weapon.  Mogi- _san_ , if you would.”

Mogi nodded, held up the silver briefcase he was carrying, opened it, and held it out for me to look.  Inside was a simple black notebook, completely ordinary, identical to the ones owned by every university student across the country – except for two words etched into the cover in thin, spindly font. 

“‘Death Note’?” I read, frowning.  “This is the murder weapon? Come on, it’s a notebook.  How could –”

“No!” about six people shouted simultaneously.  I froze, my hand hovering just above the notebook, ready to pick it up and examine it closer.

“What? What’s wrong?” I looked to L for clarification.

His return gaze was steady, but he spent a moment chewing his lip.  “Casey – this is going to sound unbelievable, but I need you to trust me and assume everything I am about to tell you is true.  Can you do that?”  Warily, I told him I could.  “Thank you.  Casey, that notebook is not of this world.  Whoever touches it can see – well, I can only describe it as a monster.”

“A monster,” I echoed flatly.

“Yes.  It’s standing behind Yagami- _san_ right now.”

“…With respect, Ryuzaki, have you lost your goddamn mind?”

He thought a moment.  “Perhaps it would be faster if you saw for yourself.  Go ahead and pick up the notebook, but prepare yourself.”

“This is ridiculous,” I muttered, but obediently reached for the notebook.  “I always knew you were nuts, Ryuzaki, but I never – WHAT THE FUCK?!”

My knees buckled beneath me, and I crumpled to the floor, staring with wide-eyed shock at what, a second ago, had been empty space above Yagami’s shoulder.  Only it wasn’t empty anymore – it was occupied by, as L had so appropriately described, a monster.  Seven feet tall, four feet wide in the chest, a body made up entirely of what appeared to be snow-white human bones.  Its feet and hands were clawed, and sharp fangs poked out of reddish-purple lips.  One eye peeked out from tentacle-like locks of hair, the iris yellow and the pupil red and slitted, staring right at me – right _through_ me.

My mouth opened and closed like a fish’s as I struggled to find my voice.  “W-What…what _is_ that thing?” I managed at last.  My voice, as well as the rest of me, was shaking with fear, a fear I hadn’t experienced in many, many years.

“That would be a Shinigami,” L replied calmly.  “It seems the Second Kira was not using a code word after all.  They are real.”

“Y-You’ve got to be kidding me…” I locked eyes with the monster and wilted under its unblinking stare, but somehow managed to keep talking.  “I-Is that true? Are you a Shinigami?”

I’d half-expected it not to answer or understand, but it nodded, its bony body creaking as it moved.  One skeletal hand pressed against its broad chest.  “I am the Shinigami Rem,” it droned in a deep, sonorous voice that might have been female.  “Your companion spoke the truth – that notebook used to be mine, and whosoever touches it can see and hear me.”

I glanced down at my hand; I’d forgotten all about the notebook.  “Whose is it now?”  The Shinigami, Rem, didn’t answer, so I tried again.  “Is this notebook how Kira kills? Were you helping him?” Still nothing.

“So far, the Shinigami has refused to answer any of our questions regarding the notebook or the case,” L said.  “It may be trying to protect its master.”  He glanced down at me, as if only just remembering I was there.  “Are you all right? Anything hurt? You must be pretty shocked.”

“I-I’m okay.  Only…”  Only flabbergasted.  Flummoxed.  Completely thrown for a loop.  Not only were Shinigami real, but one of them had given its powers to Kira.  Those powers appeared to manifest into a little black notebook, and Kira could use it to kill people in any way he wanted.  It was ridiculous, barking mad, impossible to build a legal case around – and also the only possible explanation for everything that had happened. 

Light, who had thus far remained silent, stepped forward and held a hand out to me.  “Here, let me help you.  Don’t be embarrassed – I screamed for a whole minute when I first saw that thing.”

“Yeah, thanks.”  I let him pull me to my feet and started to thank him, but the words died on my lips.  I squinted at him, and he frowned and asked what was wrong.  I lied and said there was nothing wrong.

It might have been a trick of the light, or the last vestiges of the shock of seeing Rem, or even my exhausted and nerve-shot imagination.  But for a second, just a second, something had seemed different about Light.  His eyes were colder, darker, more guarded.  His face was blank, and the expression upon it painted like a mask.  The concern in his voice was put-upon, a stage-actor’s exaggerated response.  His mouth twitched, like he was suppressing a smile or a laugh, and almost too quick to register, his eyes filled with malice as he looked at me.

Gone was the warm and kindly Light I’d befriended and worked beside these past few months.  Whatever damage he’d sustained in confinement had been fixed, and the old Light had returned.

-

-November 4th, 2004-

The notebook, which everyone was now calling the Death Note, was filled with eight-by-ten lined paper, the exact same style that could be bought in supply stores all around the world.  The cover was the consistency of cardboard, also normal.  According to Aizawa and his forensics friend, however, the materials which made up the book and the ink with which the title had been written were compounds that did not exist on earth.  One page had a little strip ripped out of it, but every other page was whole and completely blank.  Just inside the front cover, however, were four little paragraphs written in English with the same spindly handwriting as the title, under the header “How To Use It”:

_The human whose name is written in this notebook shall die._

_This note will not take effect unless the writer as the person’s face in their mind when writing his/her name.  Therefore, people sharing the same name will not be affected._

_If the cause of death is written within forty seconds of writing the person’s name, it will happen.  If the cause of death is not specified, the person will simply die of a heart attack._

_After writing the cause of death, details of the death must be written within the next 6 minutes and 40 seconds_.

And there were two more rules written on the inside back cover:

_Once a human has written a name in this notebook, he must write another name within 13 days, or he will die of a heart attack._

_If this notebook is destroyed by fire or otherwise rendered unusable, all humans who have touched the notebook up until that point will die of a heart attack._

When pressed, Rem (who had taken to hanging around the command center, where we kept the notebook in a glass case) confirmed that all six rules were genuine, though of course we could not prove them and could only take her (?) at her word.  Matsuda was quick to point out that both Light and Misa had spent over fifty days in confinement, without access to the Death Note, and were still alive, meaning they could not possibly be Kira.  I had a bad feeling about it, but on the surface of it, he was right.  With proof against our suspicions, we had to let our suspects go.  The handcuffs came off (to my secret glee), but Light continued to stay at headquarters and work the case with us.  Misa returned to her old apartment and her old life, promising to visit Light as often as she could.  The very next day, Kira – who had remained dormant after the death of Higuchi – began killing criminals again.  And there was nothing L or I could do about it.

We wracked our brains to try and decipher the notebook’s secrets.  Rem hinted that there were other rules besides the ones written on the covers, but no one was willing to try and discover what they were out of fear of the 13 day rule.  When we tried asking Rem about the notebook – or about Kira, Higuchi, the eye trade, or just about anything, really – she would answer “I don’t know.”  Clearly she was hiding something – or protecting someone.

One night, I was alone with the notebook, trying to work backwards and decipher the additional rules by Light and Misa’s actions.  The Second Kira’s power to see names just by looking at a face was of particular interest to me.  That must have been the “trade” Higuchi had been talking about; since a Death Note owner needed both a name and a face to use the notebook, it was the greatest advantage they could have, which meant it had an equally great cost.  But what was it? Their lives? Their souls?

“Hey, Rem,” I said, still not believing what I was really speaking to.  “I have a question for you.”

The Shinigami, who had been staring at the news feed on the control panel with interest, turned to face me.  “I’ll answer if I can, though I might not be able to.”

“As usual, right?” I muttered, rolling my eyes.  Gradually, I had gotten used to the thing enough that I was no longer petrified in its presence, though I still jumped when it suddenly leapt into my vision.  “Oh, did I ever introduce myself to you? I’m Casey Watson.”

“If you say so,” Rem replied, glancing above my head.

“…That’s what I wanted to talk about.  You Shinigami have the power to see someone’s name and lifespan just by looking at their face, right? And you can pass that power along to a human who owns the Death Note.”

The Shinigami nodded.  I could tell it wasn’t happy about revealing this, but since we already knew about the eye trade, hiding the last vestiges of information would have been too suspicious.  She had to at least pretend that she was really ignorant, after all.

“Right.  My question is – and this has nothing to do with Kira, by the way, so don’t feel like you have to hide anything – is it possible to get the Shinigami Eyes without owning a Death Note?”

Rem’s lips puckered in a genuinely confused frown.  “No.  The only person a Shinigami is permitted to trade with is the human to whom they are attached through the Death Note’s ownership.”

I leaned back in my chair and stared up at the ceiling, lost in reminiscence.  “The thing is, I knew a man – a boy, really – who claimed he could see my name and lifespan floating above my head.  I never told him what my real name was, and I’ve destroyed all records of it.  Only two people in the world know what it is, and neither of them would ever tell this boy.  Yet somehow he knew it anyway.”

“He must have owned a Death Note and traded for the Eyes, then.”

I shook my head.  “No, he didn’t.  He killed three people with his bare hands because he was trying to create a crime that couldn’t be solved.  To that end, if he had a Death Note, he definitely would’ve used it.  So how did he get the Eyes?”

Rem shook her head, bones creaking.  “I honestly have no idea.  Perhaps it was a genetic mutation of some kind.”

“Maybe.”  I pushed the thoughts from my mind – with B dead, it’s not like I would ever get real answers anyway.  “And the name above my head right now is the one that would a Death Note owner would need to kill me, right?”

“Correct.  ‘Casey Watson’ would not be enough; only a human’s true name will react with the Death Note.”  She paused and frowned again, rubbing her chin with a clawed hand.  “Though I wonder if you would die even if I wrote your name in my Death Note.”

It was my turn to frown in confusion.  “What do you mean?”  When she didn’t answer, I added, “I’m just going to keep asking, so you might as well tell me.”

She hesitated, weighing her options, then reluctantly answered.  “One of the hidden rules of the Death Note prohibits the murder of third parties.  That is, if you were to write ‘Mr. A shoots Mr. B through the heart and then shoots himself in the head,’ both Mr. A and Mr. B would die of heart attacks.  A name written in the Death Note will result in only the death of that name’s owner.”

“I get it, but what does that have to do with me?”

“Perhaps nothing.  It would depend on what the laws of the universe would consider human life.  I’ve never seen such a thing happen, so it might or might not carry on as if killing an ordinary person.  You’re going to be sick again, I think.”

She was right; out of nowhere, my stomach had started to churn and my gorge started to rise.  I scrambled out of my chair and raced to the nearest bathroom.  I barely made it.  “Goddamn it, what is going on?” I moaned once the last of the dry heaving had subsided.  For the past two weeks, I had been throwing up at all hours of the day, at least once in a twenty-four hour period but often much more frequently.  When I wasn’t throwing up, I was so nauseated I could hardly eat or sleep.  Mr. Wammy had offered to take me to the doctor, but I’d refused, not willing to step away from the mysteries of the notebook for even a minute.  The nausea was getting worse, though; soon it would get in the way of my work, and now was not the time for that. 

I tried to think back – it had started two weeks ago, and what had happened two weeks ago? I hadn’t eaten anything odd.  I hadn’t caught a virus from the other Taskforce members.  I was stressed, but that was nothing new.  L, though, had started acting strangely again, this time paying me too much attention instead of too little attention.  He kept asking me if I was feeling okay and saying that it was okay to lie down for a couple of hours if I needed to.  I’d written it off as a side effect of our new status as actual lovers, but maybe he was concerned.  Maybe the sickness was more serious than I’d thought, and I was fooling myself that I wasn’t as bad as I –

_Actual lovers._

No.  No way.  The doctors said it was impossible.

The doctors said I had less than a five percent chance of conceiving.  _And you know what I always say about improbable and impossible,_ and _my track record with long odds._

With deliberate calmness, I cleaned up, went to my room, and fetched my desk calendar from my nightstand.  There was a little red dot drawn in the box for October 6th, and none after.  This was not surprising in and of itself.  Since B had shot me, my period had been sporadic and unpredictable, sometimes featuring great gushes of blood and incredible pain, sometimes only a few drops.  Oftentimes I would skip it altogether, not getting it again for months.  There was no real way to keep track of it, which was annoying.  But still, our first bout of lovemaking had been exactly two weeks after I’d last gotten my period.  A normal reproductive system would have been ovulating.  Even though it hadn’t quite been a month, the timing was right. 

Then something occurred to me.  L had thought it was possible to keep an early-warning system for my next period by monitoring my hormones.  Which he did with Mr. Wammy’s special belt.  The belt I’d been wearing all year, which sent L a daily report and could send additional reports at any time with a push of a button.

Including the exact concoction of my hormones.

“You son of a bitch!” I screamed into the empty room.  Then I fumbled for my phone and called L.  “Where the hell are you?” I snapped as soon as he connected.

“The kitchen,” he replied, slightly taken aback.  “It’s snack time.  What’s the matter? You sound upset.”

“Yes, Ryuzaki, I am _very_ upset.”

“Tell me what’s wrong, then.  Perhaps I can help.”

“Tell you? Tell _you_?” I gnashed my teeth, seeing red.  “ _Don’t you have something you need to tell me_?”

“…You’re in your room, yes? Give me a moment, I’ll be right up.”

I snarled and paced the floor for another five minutes before the elevator dinged and L shuffled out.  He took one look at me, pressed his mouth into a thin line, and gestured to the couch.  “Please sit down, Casey.  You’re going to hurt myself.”

I would not be moved by his false concern over my well-being.  “Hurt myself _and_ …?”

He was silent a moment, and then sighed very deeply, all the air in his body leaving at once to leave him withered and broken.  “…And the fetus.”

The word chased all the rage out of me, leaving a crushing panic in its wake.  I let L lead me to the couch, slumped into a sitting positon, and buried my face in my hands, feeling tears start to prick at my eyes.  L took my hand and stroked it with a thumb.  We didn’t move for a long time.

“How long have you known?” I asked at last, too defeated to be angry again. 

“The whole time, or nearly so.  Twenty-four hours after – ahem, conception – your hormone levels altered drastically.  I asked Watari to access the information from your belt buckle, just in case there had been a mistake.  The results were the same each time, every day.  When you started vomiting, I was sure.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Watari told me not to.  He said it wasn’t usual for the mother to be told by the f –” He choked on the word.  I looked up to see him furiously biting his nails, eyes wider and face paler than I’d ever seen him.  Only now did I realize that he was affected by this too, and from the look of it, he was just as terrified as I was.  And his terror made mine even worse.

“This can’t be happening,” I moaned, hiding my face again.  “This _shouldn’t_ be happening.  B scrambled my eggs.  The doctors said no kids.”

“I did suggest a second opinion,” he pointed out mildly. 

I looked up at him again, the tears now flowing hard and fast.  “What do we do?”

“Is that rhetorical, or is my opinion actually being taken into account?”

“Of course it is! This is your baby.”  We both seized up as the words sunk in.  L tightened his mouth again, and a deep shudder ran through him.  I’m not sure which emotion had caused it.

When he got ahold of himself again, he said, “I would rather you not terminate the pregnancy.”  After a moment’s thought, I nodded; I wasn’t sure what I wanted, but it definitely wasn’t that.  “Furthermore, as a fellow orphan, I’m sure you understand my reasoning when I say I’d prefer you didn’t give the child up at all.  I believe you remember the difficulties of both orphanage and foster-home life.”

“So what are you saying? That I should keep the baby? Raise it myself?”

He nodded.  “That would be the ideal.”

I let out a dark laugh.  “Ryuzaki, you said it yourself: I’m an orphan.  My mother died giving birth to me.  All my parental figures since then have been men.  I don’t know what a mom is supposed to be like.  How am I supposed to raise a child when I have no clue how to do it?”

“You won’t be doing it alone.  As you said, this is my child, too.”

I laughed again, the sound tinged with hysteria.  “You can’t even take care of yourself! How are you supposed to take care of a baby?”

“I don’t know.  But I can learn, and Watari has promised to help as much as he can.”

“…I’m scared, L.”

“Me, too.  But I’m also in love with you, which I consider the stronger feeling.”  He wrapped an arm around my shoulders and pulled me in close, kissing my forehead.  “It’s going to be okay, Casey.  I promise, I’ll make it okay.”

I nodded, wanting desperately to believe him.  “First thing tomorrow, I’m going to the doctor.  It’s early days, but maybe they can confirm this is really happening.”

“Good idea.  After that, though, there’s something I want you to do for me.” 

I already knew what he would say, but I asked him all the same. 

“I want you to leave Japan.  Go into hiding, go to one of the safe houses.  Just until I’ve caught Kira.”  He grasped my hands in both of his.  “Please, Casey, don’t argue.  Do this for my sake, if nothing else.”

“…Okay.”


	28. 4.12: Reichenbach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death Note (c) 2003 Ohba Tsugumi and Obata Takeshi. Another Note: The Los Angeles BB Murder Cases (c) 2006 Nisio Isin. All rights reserved.

**Chapter 12: Reichenbach**

-November 5th, 2004-

I didn’t tell anyone else, not even Morrello.  I wanted to be one-hundred percent sure before I made any rash decisions.  L, of course, trusted in Mr. Wammy’s technology and already began making arrangements.  I would take a private plane from the Yokohama military base that evening and land in New York, where my old safe house was already being set up, along with three backups in case Kira closed in on me.  I would continue working the case as best I was able, but my main task was to lay low and stay healthy, which was a genuine concern given the fragile state of my reproductive health.  Several of L’s contacts, including an obstetrician, would be with me during the pregnancy and birth, and more caregivers would come in to help with the baby after it was born.  Everything had been planned out to the letter, even my diet.  L liked making plans when he was afraid; it focused him. 

Naturally, Mr. Wammy already knew, but I gave him the news formally anyway.  He embraced me, promised to help in any way he could, wiped away my tears while crying himself.  “At my age, you’d think I would’ve had a few grandchildren by now,” he told me as he went about making arrangements for my departure.  “I’m quite excited for my first!” The fact that he so easily thought of me as his own blood, despite my running away, moved me to tears again.  It seemed the pregnancy hormones truly were in full swing.

That was it.  No one else could know.  I’d made up my mind to tell Chief Yagami as I left, out of respect for him as the head of the team, but I would swear him to secrecy.  I wanted the rest of the Taskforce completely in the dark, even if it ended up with them condemning me as a coward.  I didn’t care so long as I was out of harm’s way.  Above all else, Yagami Light and Amane Misa could never, _ever_ know, not even after the birth.  L questioned my decision on this, wondering if the baby would offer some degree of insurance against Kira, who killed for ideological reasons and surely had no quarrel with an unborn infant.  Perhaps, I argued, but that would last only until the baby was born.  Then I, no longer essential to sustaining its life, would be exterminated, or else the baby would be used as a hostage for my quitting the case.  L saw the wisdom of my perspective and agreed to keep the matter under wraps.

Mr. Wammy had pulled some strings and gotten me the first appointment with a renowned gynecologist at a hospital across town.  He offered to drive me, but I politely refused; I wanted some time to myself, without my two anxious and coddling hangers-on, to think about where things stood.  It was raining pretty hard that morning, so L arranged a cab for me and sat in the lobby with me while I waited.

“This will be over before long,” he confided in me.  “I predict Kira will have been executed before the end of your first trimester.”

“Confident, aren’t you? Think you can do that well without me?”

“Your presence has nothing to do with it, other than making me lonely.  Events will unfold as they ought to regardless of our situation.”

Yagami Light was Kira and Amane Misa was the Second Kira: that was still our mantra, our ray of light, our one truth in the universe despite all evidence to the contrary.  The only thing standing in the way of that truth was the 13 day rule – which, L believed, might have been a fabrication dreamed up by Light/Kira in order to put himself in the clear.  While I had paced and panicked over the tiny person growing inside me, L had been making the final arrangements for a true test of the notebook on U.S. soil, overseen by the FBI.  One condemned criminal on death row would use the notebook to kill a second death row inmate, and then would be observed for thirteen days.  If, on the fourteenth day, he was still alive, he would be executed by the state as planned.  Having proved the notebook’s legitimacy and debunked the 13 day rule, L would formally arrest Light and Misa.  Most likely, the legal system would have no idea what to do with them, as the public was becoming more and more polarized on the question of Kira’s morality and supporters were popping up like weeds.  If the Japanese government refused to act, L would write their names in the notebook himself, and thereafter destroy it and fly out to meet me.

“That’s a good plan,” I admitted.  “Very solid.”

“Isn’t it, though? This whole business will be over before long, so don’t worry about it anymore.  Focus on taking care of yourself.”

“Yeah, all right.”  I paused, not sure how to say what was on my mind.  “Ryuzaki, what are we going to do then?”

“Have the baby.”

“No, I mean – what do we _do_? Where would we go? We can’t keep travelling around all over creation – that won’t be good for the child.”

“I agree.  Where would you like to go?”

I ran through all the places I’d ever lived, trying to figure out where I’d been happiest.  “There are some nice sweet shops in Paris, you know.”

“Paris…yes, French pastries are quite excellent.  And we’ll be near Aiber and the rest of your family, correct?”

“Nah, they live in the city.  Too noisy, too polluted.  We should look at a house in the suburbs.  Have a yard for the kid to run around in.  Maybe a swing set – oh, but would the schools be better in the city?”

“Irrelevant.  He or she will be homeschooled.”

“What, by you? Yeesh, I pity that poor kid.”

“You think he or she will have his or her needs met in public school?  Given the genetic makeup, he or she will likely be far too intelligent for the institution to handle.”

“Oh, man, you’re right…we’re giving birth to Einstein here.”

“Hopefully smarter.”

“Okay, so we’re going to be teachers.  What else are we doing?”

He thought a moment, tugging at his lower lip.  “I suppose I’ll continue taking cases for as long as it would be safe to do so while remaining in one place.  Once it isn’t, I’ll retire.  Mello or Near can take over, and even if neither of us work, I have enough set aside that we and our child can live quite well for the rest of our lives.”

I whistled.  “Quitting just like that.  You’ve been doing this your whole life, right? What are you going to do with yourself?”

He shrugged.  “I’ll find something.  Perhaps I’ll be a house husband.”

I started.  “House _husband_?”

He looked over at me, frowning quizzically.  “Of course.  Aren’t we getting married?”

“…You have to ask, Ryuzaki.”

“I just did.”

I burst out laughing.  “Oh, wow…this is seriously what I’m going to have to deal with the rest of my life? Boy do I hope our kid takes after me.”

“Is that a yes?”

“ _Yes_ , Ryuzaki.  But for future reference – not that you’re ever getting married after me, of course –”

“Of course.”

“– you’re supposed to give the girl a ring.”

“Watari said that, too.  I thought it pointless.  You never wear jewelry.”  His brow furrowed.  “Or is it the principle of the thing?”

“Usually, yeah.  Hey, do you still have Ring Pops in your snack stash?”

“I might, yes.  Any flavor preference?”

“The blue one?”

“Excellent choice.  I’ll set one aside.”

“Height of romance, right there.”

“Problem?”

“Nah.” I leaned over and pecked his cheek.  “Couldn’t be happier.”

“Me, too.”

The cab drove up and honked its horn.  I hugged L good-bye and told him not to solve the case without me, then darted out through the rain into the snug warmth of the backseat.  As we started to drive away, I twisted in my seat and saw L standing in the doorway, watching us go.  Our eyes met, and he lifted a hand and smiled.  Then we turned the corner and he was gone from my sight. 

-

The hospital smelled of disinfectant and sickness, which made my stomach heave.  As soon as I walked in, I had to run to the bathroom and stay there for about ten minutes.  “Obstetrician, right?” the front desk clerk asked as I trudged up, clutching my stomach.

I smiled sheepishly.  “Uh-huh.”

“First time?”

“Yup.”

“Congratulations.  Take a seat.”

I wished I could, but the lobby was full and there was no seat to take.  Apparently everybody was getting sick or injured today.  I ended up having to lean against the wall as I filled out the new patient paperwork, using the identity Mr. Wammy had crafted for the occasion.  A big plaque on the wall shouted at me that mobile phones were prohibited in any part of the hospital, so I shut mine off and stuffed it into my purse.

I’d expected a few hiccups getting in to see the doctor – I was inventing all-new medical records, after all – but Mr. Wammy must have worked his magic, for it only took twenty minutes until the doctor was ready for me, and that was only because of patient volume.  I went through a basic physical, and after a series of invasive and uncomfortable tests, the doctor confirmed what I already knew: that I was two weeks pregnant.

“I’ve never someone come in this early before,” he admitted.  “You haven’t even missed a period, have you? How on earth did you know?”

“Woman’s intuition.”

I explained my gunshot injury to him, as well as the Pasadena surgeon’s initial diagnosis.  He agreed that the fact I’d conceived at all was nothing short of a miracle, and that whether or not I carried the baby to term, it would be nearly impossible to do so again (nevertheless, I noted the _nearly_ and resolved to get back on the pill).  He ran a few more tests and told me that, given my injury, I would likely have extreme difficulty with the pregnancy and would need almost constant medical attention.  I said I had it covered.  He gave me the usual rundown of pregnancy no-no’s and added no strenuous physical activity, no spicy foods, and no sex.

“Seriously?” I blurted out.  The handcuffs had only just come off.

He laughed.  “Welcome to parenting.”  He gave me some (harmless) medication for my morning sickness and sent me on my way.

The whole process had taken about an hour and a half, which was much better than I’d been expecting.  It was still raining, and I didn’t have a return cab set up, so I walked out under the awning and turned on my phone to call for one.  To my surprise, I was met with no less than nineteen new voice mails, spaced closer and closer together, all from L.  He never left me more than one message at a time, and he knew I’d be unavailable.  As I was pondering the significance of this, my phone rang again, with L on the Caller ID.  I connected and put the phone to my ear.

“Where’s the fire, man? I told you I’d call when I – huh? Matsuda- _san_? Uh…yeah, of course I’m okay.  Why wouldn’t I – never mind that, why do you have Ryuzaki’s phone?

“Matsuda- _san_ …why are you crying…?”

Somewhere, far away, a church bell began to toll.

-

I wanted to say that the world ended.  That the skies opened up and poured fire from the heavens, that the ground beneath me cracked and split, that demons crawled to the surface and danced with joy.  I wanted to say that the sun was covered by endless darkness, that the world froze on its axis, that everyone in it wept and wailed and tore their hear out in their despair.

But none of that happened.  Things went on as they always did.  No one knew the depth of their loss.  My family had been dead for twenty-three minutes, and I hadn’t realized it.

They told me that the power had suddenly gone out, lightning form the storm.  They told me that the Shinigami was the likely culprit, as it had disappeared without a trace.  They told me that Watari went first, just managing to delete all data from the headquarters’ system before succumbing.  They told me that it was less than twenty seconds later that L suddenly seized up and fell out of his chair onto the cold floor.  They told me it had been peaceful, easy, dignified, without a sound or movement.  They told me he died in Light’s arms.  They told me Light screamed.

They told me all this with pale faces and trembling lips and tearstained cheeks.  I listened without a word, without a nod, without any sort of response.  I didn’t cry.  I didn’t think I could.  I kept looking at the control center, where a half-empty cup of coffee and a plate of animal crackers sat neglected and forgotten.  I ought to wrap those up, save them for later.  He never wasted food. 

And then Light walked in.  His cheeks were rosy.  His eyes were dry.  He saw me, arranged his face to look shocked and mournful, and then bowed respectfully, as one did when they were sorry for someone else’s loss.  “Casey- _san_ , I am so –”

“Why am I still alive?” a voice that sounded like mine interrupted.

He lifted his head, frowning.  “What?”

In an instant, he had been slammed against the wall, one hand pinning his shoulder, one hand at his neck.  “Why am I still alive?!” I shouted in his face.  “Why didn’t you kill me, too?!”

He wheezed.  “I didn’t – I don’t know –!”

He didn’t, I could see.  He’d expected his pet monster to remember my name without having my face right in front of it.  He’d expected his halfwit partner to think back to that day at the university and remember a name she’d seen only once before getting kidnapped and tortured.  He’d expected me to die with my loved ones, and I hadn’t.  The victory was hollow and sour on my tongue.

Someone pulled me off of him.  Someone told me to stop, that it wasn’t Light’s fault, that it had been the Shinigami.  Gullible fools.  How could they not see what was so clearly in front of them? I wrenched myself free and ran up to my room.  I heard the thundering of footsteps pursuing me and locked the door behind me.  They pounded on the door and shouted for me to open up, to let them help me.  After a little while, they gave up and went away.

I went to the luggage I’d packed the night before and condensed it into a single bag, abandoning everything I could not carry.  My gun went at the very top of the pile within.  I entered my override password and accessed the headquarters’ impregnable backup server.  Mr. Wammy’s deletion protocol had destroyed almost everything, including the security footage and all evidence we’d compiled against Kira.  I saved what I could and scrubbed out the rest.  I called Wedy and told her to run, called Morrello and told him to meet me at Yokohama at 11:30PM.  Then I lay down on the bed, curled up in a ball, waiting for the car Mr. Wammy had scheduled last night to take me to the base.  The sheets were rumpled and dirty, mussed from L’s visit.  I pressed my face into the pillow he used and inhaled his fading scent.  Something crackled beneath me and pressed against my leg; I reached down and came back up with an unopened blue raspberry Ring Pop.  My fist closed around it, squeezing until the candy within shattered.

Misa called.  I thought about answering, asking her to meet, spelling out the needed _kanji_.  Then I put my hand on my belly and let the call go to voicemail.  She tried three more times before giving up.

The clock struck three.  My phone buzzed again, this time with an email.  I glanced at it mechanically, then stiffened.  It was a video file, labelled “For Casey,” sent from a dummy email server.  His server.  I dropped the phone, picked it up with shaking hands, and after missing twice, pressed the file to open it.

The screen went dark for a moment as the video loaded.  Then he was there, sitting only a foot from what appeared to be a web camera, against the background of the subterranean server room in our building.

He smiled at the camera.  “Hello, Casey.  Let me start off by saying that this message is meant for you and you alone.  If anyone else is present, please leave the room.  That means you, Matsuda- _san_.”  He paused while the imaginary onlookers made themselves scarce.  “Thank you.  Casey, if you have received this file, then one of two things have occurred.  First, I have forgotten to turn off the application that sent this to you automatically.  If that is the case, please call me and berate me for being forgetful.  Please forgive me – as you can imagine, I’ve been rather distracted lately.”

He paused again, and the smile left his face.  “If that is not the case, then I am dead, and this is my dying message.  I’m sorry, Casey – it appears I can’t keep my promise to you after all.”  His eyes flicked left to look at something off-screen.  “As I say this, the current time is 20:17 on November Fourth, 2004.  Incidentally, this is the sixth time I’ve recorded this message, as our situation seems to be changing at an alarming rate.  At the moment, you’re in the shower.  I’m actually going up to see you in a few –” He coughed, a blush spreading over his face.  “Excuse me, a few minutes.  Sorry, I’m still a bit shy.”  He took a deep breath, and the blush slowly faded.

“Now, to the matter at hand.  I should have already told you about my plan to test the notebook.  If all the arrangements have been made before my demise, then please carry on as normal.  If they have not – and, as of tonight, they are not – then abandon it.  Leave Japan immediately.  Carry on to the safe house as we planned.

“Once a suitable time has passed, contact the House and inform Mello and Near of my death.  They will ask, but I have not chosen between them – in fact, I never had any intention of doing so.  Just as I did my best work by your side, so do I believe they will only succeed by working together.  Such is the only way they can catch Kira.

“Now, this is very important, Casey, and I realize you will not agree with my logic.  Humor me.  Do not give Mello and Near the evidence we compiled.  Tell them only what you believe would be impossible for them to discover on their own.  In order to see which of them is truly worthy of carrying on my name, they must go from scratch.  In the event that neither of them is successful, you may tell them the truth – and then take up the mantle myself, as I know you are not only capable of doing, but also far better suited to the task than either of them.  As for you yourself, I would vastly prefer that you drop the case entirely in the interest of your own and our child’s safety.  Knowing you as I do, though, I’m sure you will continue hunting Kira.  I’m going to give you the information to several private accounts I’ve set up across the globe.  Use the funds as you like, for the sake of catching Kira and for raising our child in peace.”  He rattled off several bank account numbers.

Then he paused again, biting his lip.  “I can only imagine what you must be feeling right now.  I tried to, and experienced more pain in that short mental exercise than I have in my entire life.  Had our roles been reversed, I would not have hesitated to follow you to the next life.  But Casey, I implore you: you must not succumb to Kira.  In any sense of the word.  Do not forget why he is so abhorrent.  Do not forsake justice for vengeance.  You must live, at the cost of all else.  I cannot allow a world that does not have you in it to exist.  And yes, such thinking is hypocritical.  I am putting you through a great deal of pain.  I am sorry for it.  Consider it my last selfish request.

“One last thing: thank you for everything.  For standing beside me when no one else would.  For giving all you had for my sake.  For giving me purpose and making an empty, pointless life worth leading.  And, above all, thank you for loving me.  That is the most precious gift you ever could have given me.  As you know, I am very poor at expressing myself, but I’d like to give it a go.”  He took a deep breath.  “I love you, Chie.  More than you could ever know.  You are the other half of my heart.  I’m not sure what I did to deserve a person like you in my life, but I count myself the most fortunate man in the world to know you for even a short time.

“That’s all.  Take care of yourself, Chie.  I love you, and I am so sorry I failed you.  Good-bye.” 

The screen went blank, and at last, the dam broke and I screamed and I sobbed and I waited for the death that would never come while Kira lived.

-

I grabbed my bag and went downstairs, five minutes to go till my car arrived.  I wasn’t sure how I was going to explain myself to the Taskforce, but it seemed I wouldn’t have to.  They were not in the control center, having slunk off to lick their own wounds and mourn their own loss.  But Light was there, tapping angrily at the keyboard of the main computer.  Instinctively, I knew he was trying to recover the data Mr. Wammy deleted, so he could make sure it could never be used against him.  I also knew he wouldn’t find it.

He looked up as I descended the stairs and turned his chair to face me.  He reached around and tapped a button on his keyboard, and I heard the cameras above sputter and die. I thought about the gun at the top of my bundle of worldly possessions, thought about whipping it out and shooting him between his red eyes and ending the nightmare once and for all.  But that would accomplish nothing.  That would not be justice, or even vengeance.  It was not enough to simply kill him.  I had to beat him at his own game, make him lose and make him know it, destroy him as he destroyed me. 

“I don’t care how long it takes,” I said in a low voice.  “I don’t care what I have to do.  I don’t care if you kill me in the process.  I promise you, I will kill you.”

Light stared at me.  Then his handsome face morphed into a sneer, an expression of pure evil.  Gone was the charming and perfect young man; it was the Devil standing before me.

“You can try.”

-

END OF NOTE 4


	29. 5.1: Reset

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death Note (c) 2003 Ohba Tsugumi and Obata Takeshi. Another Note: The Los Angeles BB Murder Cases (c) 2006 Nisio Isin. All rights reserved.

**Note 5: What Remains is the Truth**

**-**

**Chapter 1: Reset**

I thought I would die when I went back to Wammy’s House.

It took far too long to get there.  Almost as soon as I reached the safe house, the stress of the last year, the grief of the last day, and the strain of early pregnancy in a broken body finally caught up with me.  I became ill, and since I refused a hospital (they would keep records, and records could be hacked), the caretakers L had arranged for me had to nurse me themselves in the safe house.  More than once, I heard them despair for my life, and it was nothing short of a miracle that I didn’t lose the baby.  Somehow, I managed to endure, but then came the recovery, not to mention steeling my nerves to return to the place that had been such a terror for me.  So it was that I didn’t make it to Winchester until December 5th, exactly a month after L’s death.

The House hadn’t changed much in ten years.  The bricks and paint were a bit more faded, and the gate had been replaced with a taller and sturdier model, but the building itself was well-maintained and didn’t seem to have undergone any major renovations.  It was about the same size, too, and the lack of additions or outbuildings spoke to a declining population within.  I’d arrived at around four o’clock, which meant that in this month of December, the sun was already setting, bathing the House in an orangey glow that made it look like it had been set on fire.  There were no children playing in the yard, but I caught a glimpse of a few discarded dolls and plastic cars.  The bronze sign on the gate had been well-polished, the blocky letters sparkling like diamonds.  The swing set was still there, sporting a new coat of paint.  Our swing set.

My eyes drifted over the all-too-familiar sights, and my mind conjured up the missing pieces.  The children quitting their games and crowding around the fence to see their newest arrival.  Mr. Wammy at my side, squeezing my hand and welcoming me home.  The safety and peace I’d felt at the prospect of living in this place.  And that little flicker of movement up in the bell tower window, from a person who would never move again.

At once, it became too much for me, and I stumbled to a nearby bush to vomit, not sure if it was caused by the baby, my own sorrow, or some mix of the two.  Had he realized what he had asked of me, when he told me to return here? _It’s for the case_ , I had to tell myself over and over as the heaving subsided.  _For the case_.  But I could see him everywhere, at the window, on the swing set, climbing into a car and disappearing down the road…

Gradually, I became aware of a strange sensation on my back, and it took me a few moments to realize that someone was rubbing it with one hand.  With the other, they were pulling my hair back from my face.  A soft voice at my ear calmed me – until I realized that I’d heard it before.  Everything inside me went still as I straightened up and turned to face the author of my misery.  He was in his sixties now, body stooped and wrinkled, his hair gone completely gray, beady eyes magnified behind enormous spectacles.  All the same, I could have picked him out of a crowd of thousands – and then promptly run the other way.

I couldn’t run today, though.  For his sake, and the sake of the tombstone I had fashioned for Kira so clearly in my mind, I faced him head on, towering over him now.  “You’re shorter than I remembered, Roger Ruvie.”

The sympathy on his face evaporated, leaving confusion behind.  “How on Earth – I beg your pardon, Miss, but have we met before?”

It took me a moment to remember the surgery.  It had fooled someone, at least.  I chuckled, barely smiling.  “Mr. Ruvie, I’m the little girl who laughed her way through your entrance exam.”

He stared at me, not understanding.  Then slowly, recognition slackened his features and widened his eyes.  “ _C_?” I nodded, and he squinted at me, trying to catch the remnants of the face he’d known.  He gaped like a fish, opening and closing his mouth in shock, before settling on the most important of what had to be a thousand questions.  “Why are you here?”

“Trust me, it’s not by choice.  Have you been reading the papers?” My L might have been just another nameless corpse, but Mr. Wammy had been as public figure, lauded for his accomplishments and generosity the world over.  The morning after his death, what seemed like every newspaper on Earth had announced his death, and the smiling picture which accompanied the story haunted my every step.

Roger nodded, and his face twisted in genuine sorrow.  He may not have enjoyed his job, I remembered, but he had done it for Mr. Wammy’s sake; they must have been good friends.  Had he been anyone else, I would have pitied him.  “Yes, I saw the article in the Times.  The poor man…he’ll be sorely missed, I can tell you that.”  Then the full meaning of my visit seemed to sink in, and his expression changed to one of horror.  “He’d told me years ago that you were safe, that you were working with L…w-we never got any confirmation, and n-no news is good news, of course…but if you’re here now…” He broke off, silently begging me not to confirm his worst fears.

“Your years of preparation have not been in vain,” I said with all the coldness I could muster.  “L is – is dead.”  A stab of pain sliced through the fog of numbness, and I had to pause and reign myself in before continuing.

No doubt that Roger had been waiting for those words for the past fifteen years, but the effect of hearing them at last was still too much for him.  His face went white, and he had to clutch the fence to keep himself upright.  I watched him, feeling my gorge rise at the thought of this insect of a man mourning his better, whom he never even knew. 

“Was it Kira?” he managed to ask through trembling lips.  I nodded shortly, and he let out a little moan of despair. 

I gave him a moment to compose himself before saying what I’d come to.  “I need to see Mello and Near.”

-

He brought me inside to his office, which, except for the upgraded computer, looked exactly the same as it had that night ten years ago.  Hopefully, he’d upgraded his security a little.  Remembering the circumstances of our reunion, he asked if he could get me something, water or a plain biscuit or a little stomach medication.  I told him I was only suffering the effects of early pregnancy.  His eyes bugged, and I could hear the unspoken question as clearly as if it had been shouted – _was it_ his _?_ I did not elaborate, and he did not ask, satisfying himself with wondering where the time had gone and offering me the single chair.  I refused, preferring to stand beside his desk so that I could watch the door.  When it opened five minutes later and the boys trooped in, the fog cleared a little again, bowing to curiosity.

Neither L nor I had seen either of his successors face to face since Roger announced them the most likely candidates.  L had spoken to the both of them privately, but he had kept his screen up the whole time, and as far as I knew, both of their faces had been hidden, too.  They’d never seen me, either – not with this face, at least – and both of their faces turned to me as they entered and greeted Roger, one openly curious, the other blank and guarded.  I stared back, appraising them.  At first glance, they were as unlike each other as L and Kira, but in both of their expressions, I could sense the same fierce intelligence.  Mello, who had arrived at the House about a year after I’d left it, was two years the elder, but his face was still rounded with baby fat.  He stood perfectly straight with his arms by his sides, hands balled into fists.  He wore all black, the clothes just a bit too tight, which seemed to be by choice rather than necessity given the newness of the outfit.  He wore his blonde hair cut short, which combined with his childish face gave him a rather androgynous appearance.  There were remnants of chocolate around his lips, which he wiped away grudgingly at Roger’s prompting.  Their shared sweet tooth had given L a fondness for the boy, but he had readily admitted that he might not be the best choice of successor.  Apparently, he was not yet master of his emotions, which caused him to get carried away and make small but critical mistakes.  Hearing that made me think of him a little more kindly; L wasn’t the only one who saw a little of himself in this wild young man. 

And then there was Near.  L had never told me his real name or what he looked like, but I’d had my suspicions all the same.  Now I could confirm them as I watched little Nate River, my erstwhile charge, crouch on the floor and begin playing with the jigsaw puzzle he’d brought in (completely blank, and all the pieces fitting together quickly and without error).  The only thing that had changed in ten years were his height and the size of his white pajamas.  Everything else – his messy hair, the style of his clothes, his wide and perceptive gaze, his preference for sitting on the floor rather than standing on his own feet, his reticence – was just as it had been in the days of his babyhood.  I felt my face cave in a little as I looked at him, but if he recognized me in turn, he gave no sign.

“This lady is called C,” Roger said once the boys had gotten settled.  “She used to live here, but she’s been working directly with L for the past two years.”

Mello gaped at me in awe.  “You’ve seen L? You’ve met him? What’s he like? Is he really as smart as they say?”

Another little piece inside me broke off, but I forced myself to smile without feeling.  “He…he’s even smarter than that.  And he’s a good man, too.  He’s told me a lot about you two.”  Mello smiled and blushed, glowing under the recognition from his mentor.  I imagined what his face would look like once I’d delivered my message, then hastily brushed the picture aside and turned to the other boy.  “Near, it’s good to see you again.  You haven’t changed a bit.” It was a long short that he’d remember me, of course – he’d only been three when I’d left him for good – but with his brainpower, it was certainly within the realm of possibility. 

Near tore his attention away from the puzzle only for a second, looking at me with impassivity.  Finally, he clicked two more pieces together and said, “Not as much as you have.   Your old face suited you better.”  His voice, still high and unbroken, was completely flat and blank.  It seemed that his emotional growth had not improved – but what had I expected from him, having spent ten years all alone in the grips of the Program, and highest in the class at that? If I hadn’t abandoned him, would he have turned out different? I succumbed to regret for only a moment, then swallowed it up again in cold rationality.  If I’d stayed, then I would’ve died, and Near would still be alone.

No longer able to put off my gruesome task, I told them of L’s passing at Kira’s hands.  They reacted as expected.  Mello flew into a rage, even going so far as to grab Roger by the shirt collar and scream for answers, then collapse into a blubbering mess.  I envied him his feeling.  Near, on the other hand, merely spilled his completed puzzle onto the floor.  As the image split up, I realized that it hadn’t been completely blank after all – there had been an uppercase “L” in the top left-hand corner.

Even after all the pieces had scattered to the floor, Near continued to hold the empty board tilted downward, his eyes closed.  “If you can’t beat the game,” he said in an even voice, “if you can’t solve the puzzle, then you’re just a stupid loser.”  For a moment, anger flashed through my mind, but I recognized the logic of the Program in so kept silent.

Mourning was not a drawn-out affair in the House; within two minutes, Mello had composed himself enough to get to the business at hand.  “So who did he pick? Which of us did L choose to be his successor?” Near opened his eyes again, interested at last.

I took a moment to choose my words very carefully.  “He hadn’t chosen.  In his – his will – he said that he hoped the two of you would work together.”

Near put the board down and started putting the pieces together again from scratch.  “Okay, that’s fine with me.”  He sounded like he meant it, too – or at least, as much as he could while still reserving emotion.

But I only had to glance at Mello’s face to see that L’s wishes would be ignored.  Not that I was surprised – though Near had treated him politely and even expressed something that could have generously been called friendship, the permanently-second-place Mello had seen his superior as something resembling an archenemy.  The same sort of thing had happened during my own days in the Program, when the only one a candidate viewed with more competitiveness than L was their immediate superior in the rankings.  The look on Mello’s face, however, resembled not so much petty rivalry as genuine hatred.  His pride simply could not stomach the idea of abandoning the grudge it had harbored for so long.  So it was no surprise when he flew into yet another tantrum, culminating in a declaration that he was old enough to leave the House and would do so immediately so that he could fight Kira on his own.  He stormed out, deaf to Roger’s pleas.  Near did not even turn around to watch him go.

I, however, wasn’t finished with him yet.  Not knowing where his room was, I went to go wait for him in front of them front entrance, ignoring the curious looks of passing children.  He appeared within ten minutes, wearing a navy windbreaker and with a duffel bag slung over one shoulder.  He stumbled to a halt when he saw me blocking him, but the anger had not left his eyes.  “Get out of my way, C.  No matter what you say, I’m not working with that freak.”  He made to walk around me.

I stood firm.  “I’m not trying to make you work with him.  As long as Kira is stopped in the end, I don’t care how it happens.  But I didn’t come here just to tell you about L.  I want to give you some advice on the case.”

His scowl deepened.  “I don’t _need_ your help! I’m going to solve this all by myself, just like L did!” He started to go around me again, and this time, I had to shove his shoulder to make him halt.

“ _Listen_ ,” I growled.  “If I can’t tell you, then I’ll go right back to Roger’s office and tell Near, and he’ll have the advantage over you.  _Again_.  So unless that’s what you want, shut your mouth and listen.”

He hesitated, but then nodded and looked at me expectantly.  I took a minute to consider my words.  L had instructed me not to give Mello or Near any of the evidence he’d discovered over the course of our investigation, on the grounds that it would skew the results of this last test.  I would respect his wishes in that respect, but there was one thing I simply had to tell them if I wanted the case solved.  They’d never figure out something like _that_ on their own.

“What I’m about to tell you,” I began in a low voice, “I want you to treat as absolute fact.  This is a theory that L came up with and proved, so no matter how strange it may sound, assume it is the truth, and base your investigation around that.  Can you do that for me?” He nodded, looking uncertain.  “Good.”  I took a deep breath and continued.  “Until the advent of modern medicine, the Japanese had a superstition that sudden death was caused by a monster called a Shinigami.  But it isn’t just a superstition – Shinigami are real, and they have the power to kill people however the please.  And – stay with me on this – under certain conditions, it’s possible for a human being to kill with the same power a Shinigami has.”

To his credit, he didn’t laugh or even look remotely skeptical.  He simply nodded.  “Okay.  Shinigami, sudden death, transferring power.  Got it.  Anything else?”

“Yes, actually.  This doesn’t come from L, either – it comes from me.  I’m giving you a time limit.  You have until July 21st, 2014 to find Kira and stop him.”

Mello frowned.  “What happens after that? Do I lose?”

“Not necessarily.  It won’t decide whether you or Near gets to be L – you can work that out on your own, I honestly couldn’t care less.  After that date, though…” I felt my hands ball into fists.  “…I’ll start taking action.”

He nodded again, accepting without question.  I stepped aside to let him pass, and he thanked me for the information and said he was sorry for my loss.  Then, looking like he was about to cry, he disappeared into the night.  I watched him go, seeing not a fourteen-year-old boy loping down the street, but a twelve-year-old girl glancing up at the bell tower as she climbed into a stranger’s car. 

_May you have better luck than I did, Mello._

-

I met up with Near outside of Roger’s office and gave him the exact same information.  He, too, accepted the existence of Shinigami without question, but he didn’t roll over quite so easily when it comes to my time limit.  “What do you mean, you’ll start taking action? Why are you giving up now?” It was an innocent enough question, but I thought I could sense a bit of contempt in his voice.

I ignored it and struggled to find the right words, settling at last on the truth.  “I’m six weeks pregnant.  I have no problem sacrificing my own life if it means taking Kira down with me, but my baby’s a different matter.  July 21st is my due date, and 2014 would be when my child turns nine.  Since I became an orphan at nine, I know it’s possible for a kid that age to live without their parents, so long as they have someone to look after their basic needs.  By then, I’ll have found someone for sure.”

Near cocked his head to the side, the movement a ghostly echo of his predecessor that made my skin prickle with goosebumps.  “And what action will you take?”

I looked him straight in the eye.  “I know who Kira is.  I’m going to walk right up to him, pull out a gun, and shoot him between the eyes.  Whatever comes after that, I’ll take.”

His lips pressed together in a thin line.  “That’s vengeance, not justice.  L wouldn’t have wanted that.”

Another stab of pain shot through me, and I swallowed thickly to stifle it.  “If Kira’s allowed to exist for that long, the ends will justify the means.  If you won’t be satisfied with an ending like that, then find Kira before me.”

He nodded once, his eyes fixed on my still-flat stomach.  “Is it L’s baby?” he asked suddenly.

I nodded.

“Oh.”  He turned back to his puzzle.  “Make sure you look after this one, then.”

-

I thought I would die when Morrello succumbed to cancer.

It was in his liver, and it had come on so suddenly that we were still denying its existence when it became terminal.  There was nothing unusual about the speed of its progression, and it wasn’t unheard of that no treatment whatsoever – radiation, surgery, chemo, the works – did nothing to slow it, let alone stop it.  The problem was that it had just appeared out of nowhere.  The Morrello family had no history of any sort of cancer, liver aside.  He’d drunk plenty of wine, but never to excess and had lived a pretty healthy lifestyle.  There’d been no sign of what was coming in the physical only a year before.  It was as though the cancer had simply been willed into existence, with deadly results. 

 _If the cause of death is written within 40 seconds of writing a person’s name, it will happen._   Yotsuba had done it, so we knew such a thing was not outside the Death Note’s power.

The whole time he was sick, Morrello kept sending me messages, telling me that he was going to be fine and that I shouldn’t worry, to stay put in the safe house and not risk the baby and my own fragile health by travelling to see him.  However, in early April, at the beginning of my final trimester, I got a text from a number that I took a long time to recognize – it belonged to Amélie, the mother of Morrello’s son.

_I change my mind, come brighten my bedside – TM._

It was telling that he had to dictate the text, and even more telling that his ex-girlfriend, with whom his breakup had been vicious, had come to visit.  Ignoring the protests of my caretakers, I took the first plane to Paris that would take me. 

I arrived in the early hours of the morning on April 3rd, making straight for the hospital.  Morrello’s room was crowded with distant relatives and close friends who gave me strange looks as I entered.  Amélie and Jean-Luc recognized me, though, and greeted me with watery warmth.  I had not seen either of them since before the Detective War, and I wished we could’ve met again under better circumstances.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered as she wrapped me in as tight a hug as she could get around my belly.  “I’m so sorry this is happening.”

She shook her head, and I could feel her tears seeping through my shirt.  “Don’t be.  This is just God’s plan for him, and none of us could have changed it.  You didn’t give him cancer, after all.”

But I had called him into Kira’s field of vision.  I had summoned him to his death.  If I had just tried a little harder to stop L from using him…

“Would you mind giving Thierry and me the room for a few minutes?” I asked.  “There’s something private I need to say to him.  It won’t take long.”

The relatives protested, but Amélie succeeded in shepherding them out.  I heard her voice through the door as they filed down the hall: “She’s his only sister, they were so close, of _course_ she couldn’t come before now, who knows what it would’ve done to the baby…”

The baby was in no danger.  The Death Note could only kill one person per entry.  Even if Kira knew of the child’s existence, there was no name to write down.  It was only my own cowardice that had kept me away.

Left alone, I took one of the vacant chairs by Morrello’s bedside and looked him over.  He had shrunken both in height and weight, the skin taking on the appearance and consistency of parchment.  His beautiful blond hair had been lost to the chemo, and the head left behind looked too small.  An IV needle stuck out of an arm marked with hundreds of other needle scars.  What seemed like every piece of medical equipment in existence was hooked up to his diseased body.  His eyes were bloodshot, and though they moved toward me as I sat down, I saw no comprehension in them.  It was clear that he would die soon.

I smiled at him, feeling my stomach churn in anticipation.  “Thanks for everything, Thierry.  You didn’t have to save me, but you did, and I wouldn’t be alive without you.”  He didn’t respond.  I wasn’t even sure if he’d heard.

In six months, even throughout the eight-hour flight, I hadn’t been able to think of what else I should say.  So I simply took his hand, which had wrinkled and withered like an old man’s, and placed it on the curve of my belly.  Beneath it, the baby squirmed and kicked with force, making me wince.  Something suddenly flashed in Morrello’s eyes, and the suggestion of a smile split his cracked lips.  My own smile widened.

“I’ve already thought of a first name,” I told him, “but if it’s a boy, ‘Thierry’ will be the middle name, okay? I hope he grows up as handsome and charming as you.”  There was a lump forming in my throat, and I had to speak around it.  I didn’t think I would cry.

As I watched, Morrello’s lips started trembling and forming words without sound – he was no longer able to speak.  I stood up and leaned over him, waiting for fifteen minutes for him to say his piece.

 _Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but some day, smile like you mean it.  Like me and him are still with you.  Okay,_ chérie _?_

I nodded, really crying now.  “Okay, big brother.  I’ll do that.”

He was dead within the hour.  And promises made to the dead did not count.

-

I thought I would die when our baby was born.

My water broke almost a month early, on July 7th.  The labor took almost twenty-four hours.  B’s gunshot had ruined my body, and since I could not risk the hospital, I had to have a home birth, without the benefit of modern equipment.  Plenty of doctors and caretakers surrounded me, masters of their crafts, but they couldn’t make it happen any faster.  Or guarantee the baby was alive.  Or guarantee I was alive.

At this point, I wasn’t sure which I would’ve preferred.

I swam in and out of consciousness, pushing when they told me to push, squeezing when they told me to squeeze, and trying to power through the pain.  I’d been hurt a hundred thousand times in a hundred thousand ways, but nothing compared to the agony of childbirth.  It felt like I was being torn apart from the inside – not just in two, but in infinite numbers of little pieces.  I had the sense that the baby was the only thing holding me together, and once it was out of the womb, I would simply collapse like a dress falling off a hanger. 

The faces of the doctors blended together, and I thought I could hear different faces bubble up out of the mixture.  Morrello making jokes.  Mr. Wammy squeezing my hand.  Papa telling me that everything would be okay.  A and B marveling at how much blood there was.  Once I saw L smiling at me, but when I reached out to him, his face twisted in agony and he collapsed, clutching his chest.  I was sure in that moment that I would push out what remained of my life along with this baby.

But then I saw _him_.  Brown eyes gleaming red, mouth stretched into a feral grin, the face contorted to resemble more devil than man.  He laughed and whispered in my ear, telling me that it was pointless to keep fighting, that there was nothing to fight for, that he had already won, that even if I survived now he would kill me sometime soon.  Then he reached for a pen –

“ _No_!” I heard myself roar.  “You motherfucker, I’m not dying before you!”

And then I felt something leave my body, and the pain eased.  I fell back onto the bed, gasping and shaking, listening to the joyful sounds of the doctors…

…which turned to cries of horror and flurries of panicked movement.

“What’s wrong?” I choked out in a whisper.  “What happened?”  But even as I asked, I already knew.  I couldn’t hear crying. 

It felt like hours passed.  I tried to live my head, but pain and exhaustion had immobilized my body.  I could only lie there, helpless, as the voices and movement gradually slowed to still silence.  I’d thought I had no tears left in me, but I could feel them start to flow again.  _L, please, just be patient…I need the baby to live, just for a little longer…_

At last, I saw a face swim into focus before my eyes.  It was Abigail, my chief caretaker.  The same Abigail from the House, who had welcomed me so warmly and rejected me so quickly after I’d entered the Program.  Had L known that, when he hired her? She certainly didn’t recognize me, what with my new face.  I’d never told her.

“Casey?” she said in a small voice.  Her eyes were wide with horror.

I felt like someone had thrown me into a bottomless pit.  “It’s dead,” I said flatly, the last little candle I had blown out for good.

But then she shook her head.  “No, not dead.  Just, uh…strange.”  I stared stupidly up at her, and she, realizing what had happened, smiled broadly.  “Congratulations.  You have a little boy.”

A son.  L’s son.  My son.

Abigail lifted me up to a sitting position, and I saw him in the arms of another doctor.  The cord was cut, and his eyes were open – big dark eyes like his father’s that took in the world with curiosity rather than confusion.  There was already a tuft of dark hair on his head.  He was so tiny, but everything was where it was supposed to be, and nothing was missing.  And he was breathing. 

The doctor was having some trouble with him.  “Cry, damn you,” he growled, more bewildered than angry.  “You need to get the fluid out of your lungs.”

The baby coughed obligingly, but remained silent.

I laughed and held out my arms.  “It’s okay.  It’s okay.  He’s like his dad.  He only makes noise when he needs to.”

Abigail cleared her throat, and the doctor gently put the baby in my arms.  He was no bigger than a loaf of bread, and he was so warm.  Warmer than anything I’d ever felt.  He stared up at me with his father’s eyes.  His lips puckered a little at this intrusion on his rapidly-expanding world, but he did not cry or fuss.

I smiled at him through my tears.  “Hi, baby.  I’m your mom.”

He smiled and waved his little arms toward me.

July 7th was the holiday of _Tanabata_ in Japan.  It was a time when people made wishes on the stars.  I’d thought I would have the same wish on this day that I’d had every day for nine months, but today it was different.  Today I wished that my son – Akito Thierry Lawliet Hasegawa – would grow up healthy and strong, in a peaceful world.

And _then_ I wished for Kira’s death.  If the gods would indulge me more than one wish, then let that be the second.

-

I thought I would die every single day since the nightmare began.  In a way, I _had_ died that day – everything that had me _me_ had disappeared when L’s heart stopped beating.  Up until then, from the time my father died, the only reason I’d been alive was because of L.  Everything in my life had revolved around him, and now that he was gone, I had no idea what to do with myself.  I stumbled through each day, spending all my energy trying to get out of bed, unable to smile or cry or feel _anything_.  The only time I experienced any real emotion was in my nightmares.  I put on a brave face in front of Akito, but not even he could breathe any life into me.  It was like I was an automaton, something that exists and resembles a living thing, but possessing no soul of its own. 

But I didn’t die.  _I couldn’t_.  Whenever the weight became too much, whenever I genuinely believed I would simply lie down and not get up again, I would say the words that were my talisman.  Some people, I knew, said the names of their children or spouses; some said their dreams; some prayed to invisible and uncaring deities.  I simply said the truth, the one thing in a universe of darkness that offered any hope.  _Yagami Light is Kira, and Amane Misa is the Second Kira._ He had said as much, that day in the control center.  I could not prove it, and it was his word against mine, but at least I knew that I wasn’t wrong.  That L wasn’t wrong. 

Everyone is born with a purpose, some unknowable destiny that gives meaning to an otherwise pointless existence.  I had thought mine was to save people, then to save L, then to love L, then to love his son.  Perhaps all of those had been my purpose, if only for a moment.  But now I knew better: the reason I’d been born, the reason I did not die with my family, the reason my shredded half of a heart continued to keep beating, was to kill Yagami Light.  If I was Holmes, then he was Moriarty.  While he lived, I could not die.

And so I waited.


	30. 5.2: Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death Note (c) 2003 Ohba Tsugumi and Obata Takeshi. Another Note: The Los Angeles BB Murder Cases (c) 2006 Nisio Isin. All rights reserved.

**Chapter 2: Family**

Akito was a strange baby who grew into an even stranger toddler.  As his mother, and as someone who had put up with both L and baby Nate, I took it in stride with few problems, but it made me wonder.  L had never told me about his life before he had met Mr. Wammy, and I knew better than to ask.  Watching his son, though, I was curious whether or not he had acted the same way in infancy, which then inspired Mr. and Mrs. Lawliet to abandon him.

Like my first charge, Akito experienced remarkably quick development in some respects and remarkably slow development in others.  To start with, he began taking his clumsy first steps aged six months, but after he could cross the room without falling, he would sit – or crouch, as he preferred, thankfully closer to Near’s favored position than L’s – on the floor and not move unless picked up.  It wasn’t that he couldn’t walk, but rather he seemed to have no desire to walk, beyond proving to himself that he could.  In addition, he was almost silent.  He never cried or fussed, even when he wanted something, and so I had to rely on my own intuition in terms of feeding or changing him.  It made for stressful work, not knowing whether I was doing the right thing, or whether there was something genuinely wrong with my baby.  He hardly laughed, gurgled, or made any other sort of noise one would expect a baby to make, which frightened me in an entirely different way. 

One day, close to Akito’s first birthday, he toddled on his own from the living room to my office and stood by my computer chair, looking up at me with his big eyes.  I smiled down at him.  “What’s up, little man?” I asked, fulling expecting the question to be rhetorical.

“Mama, I’m hungry,” he said in a clear, unfaltering voice.  “Can I have some applesauce, please?”

He had never said so much as a single word in my hearing, and as far as I knew, Abigail and the others hadn’t heard anything, either.  And yet here he was, speaking full sentences with perfect grammar.  I was stunned into silence, and Akito had to repeat his question before I roused myself enough to get him his snack.  Once I’d handed him the opened applesauce, he smiled and said, “Thank you, Mama.”  Then he took his snack back into the living room, leaving me paralyzed with shock behind him. 

From then on, he would respond to my good mornings and good nights, and, whenever I told him I loved him, he would beam broadly and say he loved me too, without any sort of prompting.  Other than that, though, he only spoke unless spoken to or when he wanted something, never having to be reminded to say please and thank you.  Once I thought I heard him singing to himself, but when I asked him about it, he only looked at me like he didn’t understand what I was saying.  Like with walking, he seemed only to want to do it to prove that he could, and not do anything that wasn’t absolutely necessary.  Moreover, it was like he knew the words intuitively, having heard at the most once or twice before speaking them himself.

L had been right about one thing for sure – as the product of two geniuses, our child was incredibly smart.  Though he was not a talker, Akito had always given me the impression from a very young age that he understood everything that was said both to him and in his presence.  Near had given me that same impression; perhaps it was a trait of geniuses.  As he grew older, Akito’s linguistic capabilities grew further and faster.  By two, he could speak both English and Japanese fluently.  By three, he had added French, Italian, and Spanish to his repertoire.  At that time, he could also read and write very well.  The picture books of his infancy had started to bore him, so he sought more complicated material on my own book shelf, using a chair to reach the high shelves.  I scolded him for putting himself in danger by climbing like that, and he apologized, but he continued when I couldn’t see him and relied on Abigail to fetch the books when I could. 

Over time, I began buying college-level textbooks and placing them on my shelf – on the lowest placement, of course.  He never picked up anything he wasn’t interested in, but he devoured everything I left for him within a day of me buying it.  He would take the book, sometimes a volume too big for him to carry by himself, and curl up on the sofa, not moving or making a sound beyond the turning of pages for hours.  I was hoping he would come and ask me for clarification whenever he found something he didn’t understand, but he could work everything out on his own with no problem. 

“Anything you need help with?” I would ask hopefully.

He tore his eyes from the page and shook his head a little impatiently.  “I’m fine.  Thank you, though.”  Then he’d go back to reading and forget me.  At those times, I felt a sudden urge to apologize profusely to my father and grandparents. 

At first, he only read non-fiction and instructional books, but one day, I came back from the store to find him reading _The Complete Sherlock Holmes_.  My heart gave a little thrill when I saw him reading my favorite book, and this time, I was not disappointed.  When he saw me approach, Akito lifted his head and grinned at me, cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling.

“Mama!” he said in wonder.  “This book is so amazing!”

“Isn’t it?” I sat down next to him and smiled.  “That’s been my favorite book since I was your age.  Holmes is pretty cool, isn’t he?”

“So cool! So smart! The answers come to him, like, _zoom_!” He bounced up and down in his seat, overwhelmed by the story.  Then something occurred to him, and he looked up at him curiously.  “Mama, you’re a detective just like Sherlock Holmes, right?”

“I’m not as smart as him, but yeah, I’m a detective.  Reading the book made me want to be one just like him.”

He looked awed.  “Wow! Do you catch bad guys like him?”

“M-Most of them.”  A familiar red-eyed monster popped into my head, and I hastily brushed the image away before I allowed it to change my face.

Akito hadn’t noticed, though.  “I want to be a detective, too!” he announced, looking more determined than I’d ever seen him.  “When I grow up, I’ll catch bad guys just like you! And we can be detectives together, right, Mama?”

I watched him warily.  “Sure…I mean, I’d like that, but is that what you want to do?” I didn’t want to force him.  He was younger than I had been when my future had been decided for me.  Obviously, at this rate he’d be far better at it than I was, but…

But he nodded eagerly.  “Yeah! Yeah! Can I, please?”

Abigail, meanwhile, had come into the room when she heard our voices and had been listening to this conversation with a smile on her face.  “You know, Aki,” she said in a conspiring voice, “your father was a detective, too.”

“ _Abigail_ ,” I hissed, making her shrink back.  Already, the happiness I’d felt had burst, and the numb fog had settled over my brain again.  It was my defense mechanism; I had to fall back into it, or I’d be lost.  Even years later, I could not think of him without despairing, and I dreaded the day that Akito began asking questions in earnest.  So far, he hadn’t vocalized any curiosities he had about his father, but it was only a matter of time until he did.

This time, though, the mention of that mysterious godlike personage, his absent father, served only to cement his resolve.  “Then I have to be one now! It’s the family business, right, Mama?” There was no resignation in his voice, and he seemed more excited than ever.

“R-Right.  But if you change your mind later, that’s fine, too.  You’ve got plenty of time to decide what you want to be.”

“I want to be a detective,” he insisted.  He had that same look in his eyes L would get when he was being particularly stubborn, so I let it go.  Maybe I was letting my own trauma get the best of me.

His vocation and choice of books aside, Akito didn’t seem to take after me at all.  His bizarre development, his expanding intellect, and his abnormal behavior all pointed to him favoring his father.  I made sure he ate right, and he always cleaned his plate, but he only got excited about the food in front of him when it was sweet.  He followed the necessary social etiquette, but it was clear he either was not able or did not want to understand why such things were the way they were.  It was hard to tell in those early days, and I’d all but forgotten what I’d used to look like, but he even seemed to look more like L than me.  I only saw myself in the color of his eyes, which were all but hidden by his wide pupils anyway.  He was, in short, a smaller L, and he was the last part of him that existed in this world.  If I’d had any reservations about continuing to exist in order to raise him, I gave them all up when I realized this and showered him with love, which he returned in full.  He was affectionate in his own way, though not overly fond of kisses.  He liked hugs quite a lot; one other way in which he took after me.

I was no more confident in my parenting abilities than I had been when I’d first found out I was pregnant, but I did the best I could by him.  I made sure he was fed and clothed properly, that his voracious intellect was at least temporarily satisfied, and that he never forgot that he was loved.  When he had bad dreams, I brought him to my own room to sleep next to me.  I spent as much time with him that I could and never let my grief show on my face, so that he would only have good memories of me.  And I began secretly making arrangements, with Abigail and the other caretakers, and even Wammy’s House (the absolute last resort, and _only_ if Akito still wanted to follow in his parents’ footsteps), for Akito’s upbringing in case something happened to me.  I’d heard nothing from either Mello or Near since that December day; as far as I knew, they were no closer to finding Kira.  It was looking like I would have to resort to Plan B after all.

I hoped to God I would never have to, though.  My love for L and hatred of Kira was now matched almost equally with love for my son.  I was so proud of him, and often I caught myself wondering, if he were still alive, if L would be proud of him, too.  Either way, I know he would love him just as much as I did.

-

Outside, the world grew worse and worse.  As far as the public and the police knew, L was still alive.  An announcement to the contrary would have thrown the world into a panic.  As time went on and my hacks became more thorough, I began seeing traces in the NPA of reports with information from “L” and the Taskforce.  It would not be enough for them to simply say that L was still alive; they would need to prove it, too, in case anyone came looking for him.  I even saw records of L speaking directly to the NPA director, using the same shield, network, and voice scrambler.  Everything he said sounded exactly like what the old L would have said.  Only the Taskforce knew what had happened, and among them, only one could replicate the intellect and deductive powers so completely.  Somehow, Yagami Light had tricked the Taskforce into letting him take L’s place.

L had suggested such a thing in jest once, after Light had tricked Namikawa, and I’d almost punched him in the face for saying it.  Not only was it an insult to all the children at Wammy’s House who had suffered and died for his sake, I told him, but it was an insult against everything he stood for.  Now that it had come to pass, though, I saw that it was worse than an insult.  It was a blight against nature.  Just the thought of L’s killer sitting where he sat, pretending to mourn but in reality glorying in his triumph, was enough to make me puke.  Worse, now that Kira himself was heading the Kira Taskforce, the investigation was running in circles, no closer to solving the case than they were at the beginning.  It would’ve been all over if someone just tested the damned notebook, but either they were too moral or too stupid to realize that, or Light-L had vetoed it and no one had argued.  To add insult to injury, Light graduated at the top of his class despite the year’s absence and was immediately hired by the NPA, where he gained access to even more police information and became widely respected by his colleagues.

With nothing to check it, the tide of public opinion began to shift in Kira’s favor.  Ever since Kira first appeared, crime had dropped at a slow but steady rate, and now, almost six years later, the number of criminal cases had plummeted by a full seventy percent.  The few that remained were still reported on the news, the stations blurring or omitting altogether the faces of persons of interest.  But ordinary citizens began flooding the Internet with mug shots, the crimes ranging from murder to traffic violations to bullying.  Supporting Kira was now the norm, the mark of a good and law-abiding person.  Disagreement meant sympathy for the dangers of society, and more often than not, it meant death, too.  Not from Kira – he had not quite gone that far yet – but from Kira’s supporters, more of whom were popping up every day, Crusaders for a hellish cause.  Kira’s reign of terror was in full swing, marked not by peace and kindness, but by fear and brainwashing. 

As Akito began venturing beyond the walls of the safe house, my fear for his safety grew worse and worse.  As far as I knew, Akito’s existence was still a secret, and not even Kira could justify the death of a three-year-old.  Still, I still posed a threat, and Light was not above taking hostages for good behavior.  I couldn’t justify keeping Akito indoors, nor did I actually want to – I’d prefer that he didn’t become a hermit like his father and actually got some exercise – but I couldn’t relax until he was safe at home.  He was not only in physical danger out there, but in danger from what he learned from the boys he played with.  I waited in anticipation for the day the hard questions would come.

My fears were realized on a warm day in June.  Abigail and Akito came back from the playground, and I noticed when I went to greet them that something was wrong.  Akito looked even more withdrawn than usual, chewing his bottom lip with his brow furrowed in distress.  When I asked, he told me that nothing was wrong, but later that night, he crawled into my bed of his own accord, like he’d just had a nightmare.  I held him close and stroked his hair, waiting for him to speak in his own time.

At last, he found his voice.  “Mama, who’s Kira?”

For all my anticipation, I felt a wave of panic crash down on me, followed by the rush of all-consuming hatred that overcame me whenever Kira was mentioned.  Feeling the change in my heartbeat, Akito shrank back, and I forced myself to remain calm.  “Did you hear that name at the playground?”

He nodded, still tense.  “Timmy and Cody were talking about it.  I asked who Kira was, and they laughed at me and called me stupid for not knowing.”  I couldn’t help but smile at the outrage in his voice.  Like his father – and, hey, like his mother, too – Akito hated being made to feel like he wasn’t the smartest person in the room.  “So I went on the computer and looked it up, but I’m not sure –”

“Hold up,” I interrupted, my voice growing stern.  “How’d you get my password?”

He blinked up at me innocently.  “You said ‘Speckled Band’ was your favorite story, so I put that in.  That wasn’t long enough, so I put my birthday in, too.  Mama, you’re not very creative, are you?”

I sighed, suddenly remembering L’s bad habit of hacking my computer without telling me.  “Akito, what have I said about going through people’s things without permission?”

He wilted.  “I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay.  So what did you find out?”

He fidgeted, looking uncomfortable.  “He appeared in late 2003,” he said in a tremulous voice, “and he makes criminals have heart attacks.  That’s impossible, right?” But he didn’t look so sure.

“For a normal person, yes.  Kira’s not normal, though.”  I hesitated.  “Did Timmy and Cody talk about that?”

“Uh-huh.  They said Kira was like God because he was so powerful, and that he was everyone’s savior for protecting us from bad guys.”

“You don’t sound like you believe that.”

He looked away, chewing his lip again.  He did that when he was trying to solve an especially difficult problem.  “I don’t know…Kira kills murderers, right? Timmy and Cody said it was okay, because murderers are bad guys.  But what’s the difference between them killing, and Kira killing?”

I ruffled his hair.  “You just picked up on something most adults don’t seem to understand.  There’s no difference at all – Kira’s being a hypocrite.  Nice work, Aki.”

Akito blossomed under my praise, cheeks flushing with pleasure.  “So that means Kira’s bad, right, Mama?”

I thought a moment, trying to find a way to make him really understand, rather than just agree blindly with whatever I said.  “You know why, when a criminal gets caught, he goes to jail?”

“To make sure he doesn’t hurt anyone else, right?”

“Well, that’s part of it…oh, that’s right.  Remember the other day, when I had to give you a time-out because you broke that vase, right?”

He pouted and looked away again.  “I said I was sorry…”

“I remember, I’m not trying to make you feel bad.  It’s just an example.  When I did that, it wasn’t to protect other vases, right? It was to make you think about what you did, so that you won’t do it again, right?” He nodded, with me so far.  “Well, jail is like a big time-out for adults.  They spend all that time thinking about what they did, so that when they get out, they’ll know not to do it again.”

Akito frowned.  “Does that always work? Because the news was talking about a ‘repeat offender’ today…”

I made a mental note to avoid the news when Akito was in earshot.  “Well, not always.  The ones who get out of jail and keep doing bad things, those are probably the bad guys.  But many people never commit crimes again after getting out of jail.”

“So, what you’re saying is, not all criminals are bad guys, right? So Kira’s killing good people, too?”

“Right.  Kira doesn’t care about whether a person’s good or bad.  He only cares if they break the law.”  Another example occurred to me.  “Remember the end of ‘The Adventure of the Abbey Grange’?”

“Holmes listens to Captain Crocker’s story, then he has Watson pretend to be a jury and he pretends to be a judge, and they declare him not guilty and let him go,” he recited immediately.

“Nice memory.  Yeah, that’s exactly what happened.  The thing is, though, by doing that, Holmes and Watson broke the law.  It’s not up to them whether a criminal goes free or not; it’s up to a real court.  Even though their decision was morally correct, by making it, they were obstructing justice.  If they were alive now, Kira would have killed them, and Captain Crocker, too.”

His jaw dropped, and he shook his head so rapidly he practically shook the bed.  “No! Holmes and Watson aren’t bad people! And Captain Crocker was just defending himself and Lady Brackenstall! It’s not fair!”

“Well, there you go.  Kira doesn’t care about ‘fair.’  He cares about the rules.”

“Like the law?”

I hesitated only a moment before taking the plunge.  “No, not the law.  Kira doesn’t care about that, either.  He makes up his own rules, and anyone who breaks them, even if they don’t know it, could be killed.”

He tilted his head to the side.  “I don’t understand.”

No, he wouldn’t.  The media never talked about it, and everyone seemed to have conveniently forgotten.  I hadn’t, though, and I never would.  “Aki, Kira doesn’t just kill people who break the law.  He also kills detectives and police officers, because they want to catch him.  It’s not self-defense, because no one’s ever been able to prove who he is, so he was never in real danger.  He just wanted to hurt them before they got any closer.”  My breath hitched in my throat, but I pressed on.  “I’ve…lost a lot of friends that way.”

Akito stared at the blanket, chewing on his lip.  He was shaking.  I thought that perhaps I ought to stop for now, and save the next hard answer when the question came.  As usual, though, my son was too quick for me – too quick for his own good.

“Abigail said,” he began slowly, “that Papa was a detective.”

I felt the knife in my heart twist.  I’d never heard him refer to his father before, let alone call him “papa.”  Suddenly, I had a horrible longing for some alternate reality, where all three of us made it to Paris and got to live together as a family.  The look on L’s face when his son called him “papa” would have been amazing. 

“He was,” I told Akito, trying not to cry.  “He was the best in the world, even better than Holmes.”

He looked doubtful, but didn’t argue.  “He’s not around anymore, and you look sad whenever someone talks about him.  Is Papa dead?”

This time, I could only nod.

He was quiet a moment.  “Did Kira kill him?”

I nodded again.  “He…he was very, very close to finding out who Kira really was.”

A look of horror passed over his face, but the frights weren’t over yet – his brain was moving too fast.  “Mama, you’re a detective.  Is Kira trying to kill you, too? Is that why we keep moving houses, so he can’t find us?”

This time, I kept quiet, but that was answer enough.  I felt Akito’s little fists clench, grabbing fistfuls of fabric from my pajamas.  He had pressed his face against my chest, so I couldn’t see his face, but he was shaking harder than ever.  “I hate Kira,” he said in a low voice.

I told him not to repeat that, or anything we had said tonight, to anyone, since they were unpopular opinions that might put us in danger.  Then I held him close, comforting and then watching over him as he slept, enjoying the warmth spreading throughout my body at the thought of my son’s validation of the truth.


	31. 5.3: Flight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death Note (c) 2003 Ohba Tsugumi and Obata Takeshi. Another Note: The Los Angeles BB Murder Cases (c) 2006 Nisio Isin. All rights reserved.

**Chapter 3: Flight**

-November 17th, 2009-

It may have been impossible for me to know exactly what had happened that cold day in November while I’d been at the doctor, but I was slowly putting together a workable theory.  The name “Quillish Wammy” might have been public knowledge – hence the Watari persona in public – but there were no existing records of either “L Lawliet” or “Hasegawa Chie.”  The only way Light could have seen them was to make the Shinigami eye deal.  However, the key factor in the incident was that I was not present when their names were written in the notebook; perhaps the killer could not recall it from memory.  That alone, given his brainpower, ruled out Light.  He had definitely seen my face that day, and would have been able to write it at his leisure on any day afterward. 

As the years went by and I continued to wake up every day, I became more and more certain that Light never had my name to begin with.  He may have been the architect of my end, but he had contracted someone else to create it.  Who, then? Misa? No, if she had made the eye trade, then she, too, would have seen my name before, and could have written my name at any time.  Far more likely was the one person who had just one opportunity to commit the crime, who only had one or two opportunities to see my name and wouldn’t have remembered it afterward, either because it was unimportant to them or because they didn’t anticipate needing it.  Someone whom Light could manipulate easily, and whom he could be absolutely sure would disappear after, so as not to leave any loose ends.

There was only one option: the Shinigami Rem, who had disappeared after L and Mr. Wammy died.  When I’d dumped the servers before fleeing headquarters, I noticed that the power had been cut to the main surveillance network, but the hidden camera I’d secretly set up in the server room on a different network was still running.  As I watched it, I noticed something strange happening in one of the lower levels.  Rem never showed up on camera, but as Mr. Wammy and L lay dying, a large pile of sand and rust materialized on the floor.  A moment later, a notebook appeared on top of the pile, one with a jet black, blank cover.  Evidently, killing L and Mr. Wammy in the way she had was some sort of taboo for Rem, which caused her to surrender her notebook – and perhaps her life, as well, given that sand.  Fifteen minutes later, when the Taskforce split up to look for the Shinigami, Light entered the room, smiled at the pile of sand, picked up the notebook, and stuffed it into the waistband of his trousers to hide it.

So that was it, then.  Light had manipulated Rem into killing his greatest enemies – and perhaps herself, too – without casting any further suspicion on himself, while also gaining yet another notebook for his own purposes.  The only misstep was that I had been out for the day, and Rem had not had my name right in front of her.  Perhaps she had forgotten it, or perhaps she did not have enough time to write three names before – what, dying? Either way, Rem was out of the picture, and with her went Light’s only foolproof means of seeing my name.  He and Misa were equally ignorant, and as long as I remained in hiding, they would stay that way.  In this way, I could be sure that I would survive long enough to carry out Plan B, in case Mello and Near missed their deadline.

However, just because I was safeguarded against supernatural methods of identification didn’t mean I was immune to regular ones, too.  Just like L and I planned, my household was itinerant, moving from safe house to safe house and never staying in one place longer than eight months or so.  The unstable lifestyle must have been difficult for Akito, both physically and developmentally, but he never complained.  In fact, after our Kira conversation, he too became tense the longer we stayed in one place, relaxing only when we were on the road.  He was becoming as paranoid as his mother.

The November after his fourth birthday, I decided that he needed a little break from being a fugitive.  We were in Los Angeles at that time, coincidentally living on the same street in which B’s third victim had met her violent end (a fact which, of course, I made sure Akito never heard).  There had been no incidents recently, and Kira’s pace of murders had even slackened a little, so I decided to give Abigail a break and take Akito shopping with me, like normal parents and kids did. 

We visited the bookstore and a clothing shop and were on our way to the grocery store when my arm suddenly jerked behind me, making me halt suddenly.  Akito had stopped walking without my noticing, and my continuing had made him stumble a little, almost dragging him off his feet.  His excitement had evaporated, leaving him silent and solemn once more.  He was also, I noticed, staring across the street at a large crowd of pedestrians jostling back and forth to get out of each other’s way.

An alarm bell went off in my head at my son’s sudden shift in attitude.  “Akito,” I asked in a low voice, “what’s the matter?”

“That big guy’s staring at you, Mama,” he answered in the same low tone.  “I don’t like him.”

I tried to follow his gaze, but couldn’t pick out anyone from the crowd.  “What big guy? I don’t –”

And then there was a break in the throng, and I spotted him.  Our eyes met, and my heart went into free fall.  He had grown a little taller, a little thinner, and a little calmer.  The body spoke of a frazzled and overworked salaryman, but the eyes were those of a rich and powerful man at leisure, as though he had no cares in the world.  He was as well-groomed as ever, wearing his hair in the exact same, perfectly-coiffed style.  Fitted fashion-magazine clothes had been replaced with a well-tailored suit that looked as natural on him as his own skin.  The look in his eyes, though…that was exactly the same as it had been five years ago.  Hungry, cruel, merciless, and dark with hatred.  In the dying light of the evening, brown eyes turned to red as they fixed on my face.  He saw me, and he recognized me.

Almost before I had registered that fact, I had scooped up my son in my arms, hugged him tight against my chest, and took off down a side street.  Akito wrapped his arms around my neck and buried his face in my shoulder, shaking like gelatin.  For the first time since he was an infant, I could feel tears seeping through my shirt and heard little hiccupping sobs.  He was just as scared as I was – I vaguely wondered if there was some instinct a child had to fear innate evil, the way a dog would bark at a stranger. 

Then I heard noises of protests as the crowd across the street was jostled out of its collective track and realized Light was shoving through them in pursuit of me.  I pushed my pace to the limit, darting down every side street and alley I saw, all but squeezing the life out of my son and all the while conscious of the sound of his footsteps behind me.  The odds were not in my favor – I may have been at the pinnacle of fitness in my day’s as L’s proxy, but I had since had a child and spent the last five years in seclusion, out of practice and out of shape, and was now weighed down by my son.  Light, on the other hand, was younger, stronger, unburdened, and had much longer legs than I did.  It was clear how this would go.  Why, why, _why_ was he in Los Angeles? He was supposed to be in Japan! Had he been tipped off to our presence? No, how could he have been, I was so careful… _oh, God, someone save me, someone save my boy, I’m unarmed, I can’t kill him, I can’t die before him, please, please…_

There! A bus, pulling away from a stop.  I shifted my grip on Akito and raised one hand to halt it, then managed to hop on as soon as the doors opened.  The bus pulled away again just a second later, and I glanced toward the back window to see Light skidding out of the alley into the middle of the road, halting traffic.  He stared dumbly after us, glanced wildly around to make sure that he truly had lost us, and then went into a furious and inaudible round of cursing, which was only compounded by the honking cars behind him.  He’d lost his composure, and we’d lost him.

Muscles screaming and heart pounding from the effort, I fished some change out of my pocket and put it in the box.  Then, waving off the driver’s concerned questions, I plopped down into the first seat I saw and tried to catch my breath.  It occurred to me that I still had my shopping back slung over my arm; I slid it off my wrist and kicked it beneath the seat in front of me.  Then I turned to my still-trembling son, who had not relaxed his grip on my neck or lifted his head to look since the case began.  “You okay?”

He looked up at me, his face pale and stained with tears.  He nodded, his eyes wide as golf balls.  “M-M-Mama…w-who was that guy? Why was he chasing us?”

I hesitated.  “He –”

And then I heard another noise, this time from somewhere nearby on my left.  It was a ringtone, a tinny version of a familiar song – one of Misa’s singles.  In fact the entire ringtone was familiar; I’d heard it many, many times before, sitting in on her during the surveillance at the headquarters.  _No way…you’ve got to be shitting me…_

I turned and locked eyes with Amane Misa.  Without even realizing, in too much of a panic, I had sat down right next to her.

She looked much the same as she had when I last saw her, but she was wearing her hair loose instead of her usual pigtails, and her Gothic style had been replaced with sensible-yet-fashionable professional garb.  She was not wearing her colored contacts today, and brown eyes darted in wonder between my face and the space above my head.  She had the Eyes again.  She could see my real name. 

Then, in pure terror, I realized that her gaze had shifted and she was looking at my son.  I pressed his face back against my shoulder, and I felt him stiffen in renewed fear.  But it was too late – she had seen his face, and she had heard him call me “mama.”  Even she had to realize who he was.  And if she told Light…

“Please,” I begged her, my voice no louder than a whisper.  “Not my son.  Do whatever you want to me, but don’t hurt my son.”  In my arms, Akito started crying silently again.

At the sound of my voice, Misa jumped.  Then, only just realizing her phone was ringing, she took the call and lifted the phone to her ear, her eyes never leaving my face.  “H-Hello?” Her voice was as high and feminine as ever, bringing me back to the days before.

She was holding the phone a little ways away from her ear, and so I could clearly hear the familiar and impatient voice issuing from it in Japanese.  “Misa, it’s me.  Where are you right now?”

“Light? I’m on a bus back to the hotel.”

“Where’s it going?”

“T-The hotel…?”

“ _No_ , Misa, what’s the _final destination_? The bus route?”

The harshness in his tone made Misa flinch, and she had to take a couple breaths before responding.  “It’s the direct line from downtown.  The one where the hotel’s two stops from the end.”

“Great, same route.  Look around, but be subtle about it.”

She obeyed.  As her eyes returned to me, I shrank back and hugged Akito to me even tighter.  It took all my effort to control my breathing so that the phone wouldn’t pick it up.

“Okay,” Misa said after a moment.

“Did you see Casey?”

I flinched and squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the blade to drop…

“ _Casey_? _Our_ Casey? Why would she be here?”

I cracked an eye open to see Misa frowning at the phone in confusion, as though Light could actually see her expression.  Our eyes met again, and she gave me a little smile.

“I just saw her,” Light explained impatiently.  “She was walking around, and she had a young kid with her.  I tried following her, but I think she got on a bus.”

“Well, she’s not on this bus,” Misa said firmly through white lips.

I heard Light let out a muffled curse.  “Fine, whatever.  If you see her, let me know, okay? Or, no, actually, you should do _that_ first, understand?”

“Got it.  I’ll go to the end of the line and wait for her to get off.  She’d want to get as far away as possible, right? Light, you should look where you are, just in case she didn’t get on the bus.”

He sighed.  “I’m already doing that.  Just do what we talked about the _instant_ you see her.”

“Okay, I’ll call as soon as I know anything.  I love y–”

 _Click_.

Misa listened to the dial tone for a moment, then sighed and stuffed the phone back in her purse.  A look of infinite sadness marred her lovely features – it seemed she was still worshipping the ground Light walked on, and that her feelings were as unrequited as ever.  To love him so deeply, and yet to lie to him without even breaking a sweat…

“Why did you do that?” I whispered, still not daring to move.

She smiled at me, a real smile, like the past five years hadn’t happened and we were still just stupid little girls pretending to be friends.  “He’s yours, right?” she asked, nodding at Akito.  He didn’t look up, but flinched when he realized who she was talking about and hugged me tighter.

I nodded slowly.

“And – and Ryuzaki’s?” Her voice broke a little, and she averted her eyes.  She was _guilty_.

“Yes,” I said in a hollow voice.

She was still a moment, then nodded as if coming to a decision.  “I don’t know how long we’re staying,” she said in an undertone, “but all the hotels we’ve stayed in have been close to downtown.  Stay away from there until I tell you, okay?” I nodded, not sure what to say. 

Up ahead, the bus announced the stop for the Imperial Hotel.  Misa pulled the cord, then gathered her shopping bags and stood up.  “Be careful, Casey- _chan_ , Akito- _chan_ ,” she whispered.  Then she hopped over my legs and flounced off the bus, drawing the eyes of every man she passed.

It was only when the bus started moving that Akito dared to lift his head.  “Is she gone?” he whispered, looking around with wild eyes.  I nodded, and he sighed in relief, slumping against me as the tension left his body.  When he recovered somewhat, he looked up at me, a bit more color in his cheeks and an expression of confusion on his face.  “Mama, why did that lady know my name? Who is she?”

“…She’s my friend.”

-

I’d called ahead, and by the time we got back to the house, Abigail was already in check-out mode.  Most of our bags, still mostly put together from the last move, were packed and ready by the door.  I sent Akito upstairs to take care of his own things, told Abigail to go ahead and make final arrangements with the landlord, and then sat alone on the sofa I’d spent days positioning to my liking in this little room.  I started up at the ceiling, lost in thought, then got up and went to my bedroom.  There was a little safe kept under my bed, in which I kept my valuables.  One of the contents was an old cell phone, bought in Japan and registered under the name Casey Watson.  It was the one I’d used on the Kira case, the one with the number that I had given to Misa and the Taskforce.  The one which had L’s last will on it in video file. 

With only a moment’s reluctance, I unlocked the safe and removed both the phone and its charger.  Then I plugged in the phone and turned it on.  I spent a moment going through the extremely lengthy missed called list – Chief Yagami four times, Light once, Matsuda and Misa neck-and-neck for first place – before moving to my contacts list and selecting the first option under “A.”  I put the phone to my ear and waited.

She picked up on the third ring.  “Hello, Misa-Misa here!”

I frowned – what sort of greeting was that? Didn’t she recognize the number? Unless…“It’s me,” I hissed.  “Are you alone?”

“ _Hiiiii_ , Nori- _chan_! Ooh, you’re calling about that date, right? Give me just a minute!” Her voice softened as she took her mouth from the receiver.  “Light, I’m gonna go take this downstairs so I don’t bother you, okay?” Muffled noise in response.  “Okay, I’m off.  Love you!”

I waited for her to return, listening to the ding of the elevator and the chattering of the hotel guests over the line.  After about five minutes, she spoke again in a much lower voice.  “Are you okay? Did you make it home safe?”

“Yeah, we’re fine, everyone’s fine.  Thank you, Misa.”

“Don’t mention it.”

We fell silent, weighed down by the things we couldn’t say.  I cleared my throat, coming to a decision right then and there.  “Misa, no matter what happens from now on, I’ll protect you.  Everything you’ve done, Light forced you to do.  You’re as much a victim as the others, and that’s what I’ll tell the investigators.”  It was the truth, after all.

She didn’t even both shielding the truth.  “He’s not forcing me to do anything.  I believe in him, and that he’s doing the right thing.”  She paused, and when she spoke again, there was a note of desperation in her voice.  “But he’s wrong about you.  You’re not bad like those criminals.  You’re my friend, and I know you’ll understand if we just explain it to you the right away.  And…and your son’s so little…” She broke off, on the verge of tears.

I hadn’t meant to be, but my response was very cold.  “Understanding is not the issue.  Your ideals are not the issue.  What _possible_ justification could you have for killing a seventy-year-old inventor who used his patents to fund orphanages?”

She didn’t confirm or deny anything – Light had taught her well – but started crying in earnest.  Not that it mattered.  I meant what I said; Misa had saved my son’s life, so I would return the favor.  None of this was her doing, anyway. 

I gave her a few minutes, then said in a low voice, “Take my advice and get away from him before it’s too late.”

“I can’t,” Misa sobbed.  “I love him. He’s everything to me.”

“Misa, he’s using you.”

“I know.  I know, but…would it have mattered to you, if Ryuzaki was using you?”

I was stunned into silence for a moment, then let out a low chuckle.  “No.  No, it wouldn’t have.”  I listened to her cry for a little while longer.  “Please be careful, Misa.  I hope I don’t have to see you like this again.”

“Y-Yeah…you be careful, too, Ca – C-Chie- _chan_.”

I smiled and hung up.  Then I went back to the safe and removed a small slip of paper, on which I’d written the number Roger had given me.  I punched it in, then took a moment to steel my nerves.  This was the one thing I wanted to avoid, the one thing that would put my son in the direct line of fire.  I’d wanted to keep him safe and innocent as long as I could, but that was over now.  Whatever Misa said, as long as she knew Akito’s name and face, he would never be safe.  There was no guarantee that her beloved Light wouldn’t force her to do anything to hurt us.  The only way to protect Akito now was to remove the threat against us.

I took a deep breath, then called the number.

“This is Special Agent Rester of the CIA.”

I forced myself to sound cool and confident, just as if this were any other mission for L.  “Oh, excuse me.  I meant to call Anthony Carter, head of the United States’ Special Provision for Kira.  Is this not him?”

He sputtered.  “Wha – who the hell are you? How did you get this number?”

“Relax, Anthony.  You haven’t been breached.  I’m a friend.  Would you mind putting Near on?”

“And why would I do that?”

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to.  Just give him a message.  Tell him I’ve changed my mind, and that I’m coming to sit in on his investigation.”  I took another breath and slipped into my discarded skin.  “And that’s coming from Casey Watson, or C, if you prefer.”

Maternity leave’s over.  Time to get back to work.


	32. 5.4: Next Generation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death Note (c) 2003 Ohba Tsugumi and Obata Takeshi. Another Note: The Los Angeles BB Murder Cases (c) 2006 Nisio Isin. All rights reserved.

**Chapter 5: Next Generation**

-November 19th, 2009-

Near had gone through zero changes in the last five years.  Now eighteen, his voice was as high and his behavior was as childish as ever.  He still wore the same pair of pajamas every day, he still sat in the middle of the floor rather than take a chair by his subordinates, and he still played with his toys.  Toys and games were to Near what sweets were to L, and he was never without them, seemingly bringing an inexhaustible amount over from England.  Even while forming complex theories and reviewing evidence, he would be throwing darts or making dice towers or smashing plastic robots against toy blocks or something.  It was really starting to freak his subordinates out, and they were all too glad to bring someone else on board to offset the weirdness.  Near himself welcomed me cordially enough, but there was no warmth in it.  He accepted my explanation for my sudden reappearance – that I wanted to watch the investigation unfold first-hand –readily enough, but too many times, I caught him staring at me, like I was an oddly-shaped jigsaw piece he was desperately trying to make fit into the larger puzzle.

Well, let him speculate.  He would get no hints from me.  I made it clear from the very first day that I was not here to help him investigate, nor would I give him the answers he was supposed to get on his own.  He countered that he’d been expecting nothing less.  So it was that each day, I would report to the SPK headquarters in the heart of New York City and spend the entire day sitting in absolute silence in the control room, watching Near try to succeed where L failed.  Already he had taken five times longer than L had, but his time had not been idle.  For one thing, he had discovered the existence of the Death Note using my vague hint and testimony from one of the cops present at Higuchi’s arrest.  For another, at the time of my arrival, he was nominally collaborating with the new L and the Japanese Taskforce, while in reality searching for evidence that proved a theory he was assuming to be fact: that Kira and the new L were one in the same.

In the process of explaining his reasoning, he brought me up to date on everything that had occurred since the president ordered the SPK’s formation back in March – not just Near’s own movements, but his rival’s, as well.  Back in October, Mello had finally made his move, in the form of a direct assault against the Taskforce.  In order to get his hands on Higuchi’s Death Note, he and his mafia cronies had kidnapped first the NPA director, then Yagami Sayu (upon hearing this, my stomach churned, both for the friendly little girl’s own sake and that of her poor unlucky father).  After they had made the trade, the Taskforce had apparently been contacted by Kira, who demanded that they recover Higuchi’s notebook and for which task he had passed along his own notebook.  That singular event had convinced Near that L and Kira were the same person; after all, why else would Kira allow the Taskforce to keep both notebooks, if he were not among them? And who else but L had shown the intellect characteristic of Kira thus far?

“Your reasoning makes sense,” I said blandly, keeping my face blank.  Near’s eyes narrowed in frustration, but he said nothing.  “So what happened next? Does Mello still have the notebooks?”

No, he didn’t.  At midnight on the eleventh, just over a week ago, the Taskforce had tracked Mello to his lair in Los Angeles and led an assault of their own.  They were able to recover Higuchi’s notebook, but Mello escaped into thin air, blowing up his hideout in the process.  As a result of the explosion, combined with an ambush by one of Mello’s men, Yagami Soichiro had been mortally wounded. 

My heart plummeted down to my toes at that.  Yagami was an excellent police officer, a devoted father, and a good and honorable man.  I liked to think that the two of us had even been friends.  The world was a little darker without him.  What a pointless death.  I felt my fists clench in anger.  _Damn you, Mello…how many more people will your pride kill?_ It was the old Wammy adage rearing its wretched head again: as long as the job got done, it didn’t matter how many people were destroyed in the process.

As for the SPK, they were at something of a standstill at the moment, owing to forces beyond their control.  During the brief time in which he had possessed the Death Note, Mello had had one of his own men infiltrate the SPK and get the names and faces of everyone present.  Mello then had another one of his men write down all the names in the notebook, slaughtering all the agents at once – including my former boss, David Mason, who had risen to head of the FBI.  There were only four survivors of that devastating attack, the only four who’d thought to use aliases: Near himself, CIA veteran Anthony Rester, FBI field agent Stephen Gevanni, and CIA golden girl Halle Lidner.  As if that wasn’t bad enough, the evening of my arrival, Vice President George Sairas, prompted by the sudden suicide of the President (which many people, including Near’s team, suspected of having been Kira-related), had announced that the United States would no longer actively oppose Kira.  To flip it around, they would be supporting Kira in all but name.

“Coward,” I hissed at the screen.

Near nodded in approval.  “Worse than a maggot,” he agreed.

Whatever Sairas had really tried to say, his actions the next day were clear as still water: the SPK was officially disbanded.  When Rester broke the news to Near, he didn’t look up from his board game.  “So, what?” he asked, his voice somehow both emotionless and scathing.  “It’s not like he can stop me from investigating, and if I’m going to do it, it may as well be here.  I like this place, and it has all the equipment I need.”  His eye slid over to Rester, then to Gevanni, then Lidner, and finally me.  “If you want to leave, that’s fine.  But they can’t force us out – not unless they come here ourselves and drag us out.”

It was a childish mentality, but a surprisingly sound one.  The government may no longer be fighting against Kira, but judging from the backlash, it would be a poor move to show any active support.  Even if they did, though, it wouldn’t matter.  None of Near’s men were put off by the fact that their organization didn’t exist anymore.  Rester and Gevanni had strong convictions that Kira was nothing but evil, and Lidner had lost family to the Yotsuba Kira.  They weren’t going to give up, no matter what happened.

I wasn’t, either.  I may not have been actively investigating anymore, but I still wasn’t going to leave Kira be.  All my life, I had run away from my problems: from the House, from being Coil, from B, and from L in both life and death.  I was tired of being a coward.  Half the time I’d given to Near had already melted away; I’d use the rest of it to gather information, and then stop Kira once and for all, alone if I had to, against the law if I had to.  No more running away.

In the meantime, though, there was Akito to think about.  Near hadn’t seen the logic of keeping Akito away from headquarters, believing that the best way to ensure his safety was to keep him within arm’s reach at all times.  Evidently, his own childhood trauma had not given him insight into the traumas of others.  The investigation of a serial killer was no place for a four year old, and he would be much safer if kept away from us, the epicenter of Kira’s hatred.  I continued to press Near until he at last arranged a small apartment for my family.  Akito and Abigail would wait there during the day, and I would return to them in the evenings.  The other three were childless and lived alone, so they had the freedom to work around the clock.  I, however, couldn’t relax until I had my son in my arms again.  It was no exaggeration to say that he was the only good thing left in my life, and perhaps the only thing besides my hatred for Light that kept me going.

-

On the night of the SPK’s disbandment, I made an excuse to duck out early and jogged down the block to my apartment complex.  Akito had been patient with me and had seemed to understand the situation perfectly when I explained it to him, but he was no doubt strained by our change in circumstances.  As far as I knew, Light and Misa were still in Los Angeles, so there was little risk in taking him out to a quick dinner as a family.  Probably.  The thought of spending quality time with my son put a little spring in my step, and it took no time at all to reach my building.

Outside the front door, though, the bubble burst.  Everything looked normal, but something just felt…wrong.  There were muffled voices coming behind the door, too low to make out what they were saying, but the fact that there were voices at all was strange.  Akito did not babble needlessly as other children did, and Abigail had no one to talk to, so the house had always been quiet on my return.  Alarms sounding in my head, I unlocked the door as quietly as I could, pulled my pistol out of my coat pocket, and burst into the room with weapon raised, kicking the door shut behind me so that the neighbors wouldn’t see.

The apartment was set up in such a way that the front door opened up facing the living room sofa, and so the abnormality caught my eye right away.  Abigail was stretched out on the sofa, arms and legs bound with cord and mouth taped shut, struggling wildly to be free.  Beside her, an unfamiliar young man in goggles was pointing a gun almost lazily at her head, smoking a cigarette with his free hand.  As I advanced into the room, Abigail thrashed about harder and shrieked behind the gag, eyes begging me to set her free.  The boy, however, didn’t jump.  He put out his cigarette on the coffee table and smirked at me without lowering his gun.

“Welcome home, C,” he said coolly. 

 _C_ …that meant he was with someone from Wammy’s House.  He couldn’t be Near’s man, as the younger boy wouldn’t order something like this.  That left only Mello.  I glanced around the room, but saw no sign of the blond murderer.  And no sign of Akito, either.

“Where’s my son?” I growled, desperately trying to keep my voice from cracking. 

He nodded toward the door leading to my bedroom, which was unusual in that it was closed.  “In there.  Don’t worry, I called a sitter so he wouldn’t be alone.”

A wave of panic washed over me.  I gestured for the boy to put his gun on the table (which, surprisingly, he did, reaching for a fresh cigarette), smiled in what I hoped was a reassuring manner at the captive Abigail, and inched my way quietly toward the door, making sure to keep my gun pointed at the henchman’s chest.  Within one step of the threshold, I spun on my heel and kicked the door opened, pointing my gun into the room.

Akito was on the bed, lying on his stomach.  My heart skipped a beat, until I realized that he had a book open in front of him and was reading it calmly, absentmindedly kicking his legs.  Across the room, Mello was seated at my vanity, pointing a gun at Akito’s head and munching on a chocolate bar.  He had grown taller and thinner during our years apart, and the black clothing had become tighter and made of leather rather than cotton.  The most striking change, however, was the angry red burn scar seared across the left side of his face, no doubt a souvenir from his exploding hideout.

When he saw me come in, he nodded casually to me, as though we had run into each other on the street and I didn’t have a gun pointed at his head.  “Been a while, C.  You’ve gained a little weight.”

“And half of your face melted off.  Get that thing away from my boy right now, or your brain matter paints the room.  I hate that wallpaper, anyway.”

At the sound of my voice, Akito lifted his head and scooted up to a kneeling position.  “Hi, Mama,” he said with a little smile, like every other time I came home.  His coloring was normal, and there was nothing out of the ordinary in his body language.  It appeared that neither the intruders nor their guns had frightened him.

“H-Hi, sweetie.  Uh…you okay?” How was it that an unarmed and staring stranger scared him, but having a gun pointed in his face was no cause for alarm? Perhaps L’s unflappable calm was an inherited trait, or maybe a Death Note user did cause some sort of intrinsic, ESP-like fear.  Or – and this was in no way impossible – had he been so absorbed in his book that he hadn’t even noticed?

He nodded.  “Uh-huh.  Your friend was giving me quiz questions.  They were too easy, though, so I went back to reading.”  Catching sight of the look on my face, his smile faded.  “What’s wrong, Mama?”

I took a deep breath and forced myself to smile at him.  “Nothing, sweetie.  Go play in your room, okay? Mama needs to talk to – to her friend.”  Akito bit his lip in consternation, but obediently grabbed his book, hopped off the bed, and left, closing the door behind him.  I heard his footsteps stop as he passed the two on the couch, but they started up again at a scamper just a second later.

Once we heard the snap of his bedroom door closing, Mello sighed and placed his gun on the table.  “‘Too easy,’ huh…that was Program-level stuff I was giving him,” he said, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender.  “Your kid’s pretty good.  He might even be a candidate to succeed L.”

A fresh rush of hatred surged through me, and I kept my gun exactly where it was.  “How dare you.  You break into my house, tie up my nanny, _point a gun at my son_ –!”

“We weren’t going to hurt them! That was just to stop them from calling the police on us.  I don’t know where you go during the day, so this is the only place I could’ve gone to talk to you.”

“How did you know I was here?”

“Matt followed you.  The guy out there.”

“Yo,” a muffled voice called from behind the door.

“Fuck off, Matt,” I snarled.

“Yeah, Matt, you really should fuck off,” Mello added.  “Go smoke outside, would you? There’s a kid living here, have some respect.”

“Right-o.”  I heard the sound of his heavy boots on the floor, then the front door opening and closing.  Abigail, out of immediate danger, began to cry through her gag.  How the hell had I never noticed that bastard on my heels for two weeks? He stuck out like an Eskimo in the tropics.

Mello turned back to me.  “You know I was in L.A., right? Matt saw you downtown one day, and I had him keep an eye on you.  Not ‘cause I thought you couldn’t look after yourself, or anything – just in case you were investigating Kira on your own.  I get not telling my anything L discovered, but finding out what you discovered on my own is fair game, right?” He looked a little hesitant, afraid of breaking the unspoken rules of the contest.

Spying on third-party investigations to gain the advantage in his own deductions…L had done the same thing during the Detective War.  Mello would be tickled to know that he was more like his beloved hero than he realized.  And slightly less tickled to know that he had been pointing a gun at said hero’s only child.  I was in no mood to enlighten him on either point. 

“Okay, fine.  You found my house, you broke into it, you tied up my people, and you waited for me to come back.  For what?”

A shadow passed over Mello’s ruined face, made even more menacing by the scar.  “I need you to take me to Near,” he said grudgingly, the very words nauseating him.  “You’re supervising him, right? There’s something I need to say to him, so take me to where he is.”

“Absolutely not.”

One eye twitched.  “I’m not going to hurt him or anything.  You’re the one who said we need to work together, right?” He shuddered, physically pained at the idea.  “C’mon, nothing bad will happen.”

“You single-handedly wiped out an entire government agency with a supernatural weapon of mass destruction, kidnapped a twenty-year-old girl, and murdered the kindest and most earnest man I have ever known.  Excuse me if I’m a little skeptical of your claim.”

He had the gall to look remorseful.  “It’s not like I _wanted_ to do any of that.  It was to get the notebook away from Kira.  I did what I had to.”

“You didn’t have to do it!” I exploded.  “You _used_ those poor people, just like they were pawns to be sacrificed.  They weren’t pawns, you know? They were actual people, with actual lives and actual loved ones who have been _obliterated_ by what you did! Goddammit, why am I the only one who ever thinks of that? What the hell is wrong with you Wammy morons?”

He shrank back, cowed by my outburst.  His good eye widened in shock.  “I-It was all to catch Kira,” he said in a low voice.  “I was just doing what made the most sense, like they taught us.  I thought you, of all people, would understand my position.  You were vying for the top once, too.  Aren’t you supposed to be on my side?”

I shot him a look of pure loathing.  “I’m not on your side.  I’m not on Near’s side.  I’m on whatever side is going to stop Kira for good, and at the moment, it doesn’t look that will be anyone but me.  Now get the hell out of my apartment, or I’ll cart you out in a body bag.”

Mello stared at me disbelievingly, then scowled at me with all the vehemence he could muster.  “Fine.  I don’t need you, anyway; I’ve got someone else who can help me.”  He stood up and stormed out of the room.  A moment later, I heard the front door slam so hard that the whole apartment shook.

-

After that, I could no longer leave Akito at the house.  Mello had proven himself to be a dangerous enemy, and since he already knew where we lived, it would be the height of folly to leave Akito where he was.  I had no choice but to move the whole family into the (former) SPK headquarters, just like the others had done.  The corner of Near’s mouth twitched as I told him this, like he was laughing at me for taking so long to come around to his way, but he agreed graciously.

Before we made the final move, I took Akito aside and explained the situation to him, unwilling to shield something so important from a mind that smart.  “And there’s something you need to know about the people we’re going to be living with, but you can’t ever tell them you know, okay? It’s a big secret.”

“Okay, I promise I won’t tell.  What is it?”

I hesitated, wary of bringing my son into my world.  But if he wanted to be a detective so bad, he had to understand the reality of it.  “They’re all using fake names, because it wouldn’t be safe to say their real ones.  I’m going to use a fake name, too.”

He blinked up at me solemnly.  “Because Kira needs your name to kill you, right?”

I nodded, unsurprised by his blunt insight.  Ever since the night I’d told him about Kira, he’d been using the computer when he thought I didn’t notice (somehow figuring out my new password every time, the sneaky brat) to conduct his own research.  I didn’t know how far he’d gotten, but it must have been obvious by this point that Kira needed a face and a name to kill.

“And if I’m going to be with you,” Akito went on, making the leap himself, “then I should have a fake name, too.”

“I don’t think Kira will hurt you,” I said quickly, noting his quivering lip.  “It’s just to be safe.  Blame your mother for being too cautious.”

“It’s okay, Mama.  I’ve already picked out a name, and I won’t say anything when someone says my _real_ name, so don’t worry.”

“W-Wow, honey,” I said, impressed by his foresight.  “You came prepared, huh? So, what’s your secret identity going to be?”

He looked serious, even for him.  “That lady on the bus said I was the son of someone called ‘Ryuzaki,’ right? Is she right?”

I froze.  I hadn’t realized he’d been listening; I thought he’d been too petrified.  Loathe as I was to speak of his father, there was nothing I could do but nod.  “That wasn’t his real name.  He was using a fake name, too, because he was hunting Kira.”  I didn’t mention that it had done him no good in the end.

Akito nodded.  “Then I’ll be ‘Ryuzaki,’ too.”  His lips was still trembling – all of him was, in fact – but I’d been wrong.  It was from excitement, not fear.  The prospect of being part of an investigation made him happy.  He really was his father’s son.

So it was that “Ryuzaki” became something of the team mascot.  When I observed the investigation in the control center, he would sit next to me, reading or coloring intricate patterns or just simply listening to what was said.  When the three former intelligence agents became stumped by what Near was saying (which was often), they would come over and play with Akito.  He was polite enough, but it was clear that he’d rather be playing by himself.  Even Rester, divorced father of three young kids, couldn’t bring him out of his shell.

His “big brother,” on the other hand, was a different story.  I’d expected Near to view Akito with hostility, in some sort of twisted sibling rivalry.  To my surprise, though, they took to each other instantly.  Even in infancy, Near had guarded his toy box with all the violence of a dragon hoarding gold, and yet he was all too ready to share with Akito.  The two played together almost constantly, even while Near was making deductions at the same time.  The older boy, of course, did not possess an ego small enough to let even a four-year-old beat him at games, but Akito appreciated being treated and talked to like an adult.  Once in a while, Near would even ask Akito his opinion on the case, and even though his ideas weren’t very useful, he glowed at the attention anyway.

 “Your son would’ve gone far in the Program,” Near said to me one day.

“He would have,” I agreed through gritted teeth.  There was no question that he would have soared above the other kids.  In fact, the argument could be made that he was the only one who could _possibly_ succeed L, given his status as the great detective’s only child.  Not that I would have ever said that out loud – or, for that matter, enrolled him in the Program.  When discussing with Roger the question of Akito’s welfare in event of my death, I had been _very_ clear on that count.

Most of the time, though, I spent my time away from the control room, playing with Akito in our living quarters on a different floor of the building.  Akito may have enjoyed playing detective and making new friends, but I was still on edge about having him sit in on the investigation.  He was still so young and impressionable, and protecting his mental health from the trauma of Kira was just as important as protecting his name and face.  Besides, as his parent, it was good for me to spend time with him.  As a result of this self-imposed exile, though, I missed out on several crucial developments in the investigation and needed to rely instead on Near’s play-by-play at the end of the day.

That was why, when Near announced one day that the SPK would have a guest, I was caught off guard.  “What do you mean, guest?”

He didn’t look up from his Legos.  “In the spirit of cooperation, L – or L-Kira, as I suppose we should call him – is sending one of his agents over to assist us.  Of course, I have no doubt that his _real_ objective is to investigate myself and the other members of the SPK, and see what we’re up to.  We won’t give him anything we don’t need to, and investigating L-Kira’s man in turn sounds pretty fair, don’t you agree?”

I didn’t share his confidence.  “Which agent? Someone from the Taskforce?” Or perhaps yet another notebook-user?

Without lifting his head, Near pointed at one of the security camera feeds on the wall of monitors.  “That’s him now.  He’s a friend of yours, right?”

I followed his finger, and my eyes widened as I recognized the man on the screen.  Without another word, I tore out of the command center and over to the elevator.  I was just in time to meet Rester, who was escorting, in handcuffs and a blindfold…

“Mogi- _san_!” I called out.

The big man’s head shot up at his name, and he jerked his head from side to side, trying to see through the blindfold.  “Casey- _san_? Is that you? What are you doing here?”  It was the most I had ever heard him speak at one time.

“Same as always: hunting Kira.” 

Rester frowned at me.  “You know this man?”

“He’s one of the original Taskforce members L and I worked with.  And I can tell you with a hundred percent certainty, he’s not Kira and has nothing to do with him.”  Other than working under him at his day job, but that didn’t count.

Rester stood firm.  “Be that as it may, he has a connection to Kira even if he isn’t Kira himself.  For all we know, Kira could be controlling him.  Until we’re sure he doesn’t pose a threat, we’re keeping him on lockdown, for everyone’s safety.”

Near’s words about investigating L-Kira’s man came back to me.  “That’s ridiculous!” I scoffed.  “Kira can only control someone immediately prior to their death, and he has nothing to gain by killing Mogi now.  That would only point the finger at –”

“Casey- _san_ , it’s fine,” Mogi interrupted.  He might not have understood Rester’s and my words, but he had certainly understood their meaning. 

“But –”

“Fine,” he insisted again, and let himself be led away.

-

-November 25th, 2009-

They kept him in solitary confinement, in a little room on the same floor as the command center.  Every once in a while, Rester or Gevanni would go in to question him about the Taskforce’s doings, but in typical Mogi fashion, he kept silent.  A few times, Near ordered that he brought to the command center and left alone, so that he’d hear the filtered information Near wanted him to report back to L-Kira.  The rest of the time, though, he was alone.

On the third day of his confinement, I snuck in to see him.  Or rather, I was _allowed_ to sneak in to see him.  I had no doubt that, like his predecessor, Near knew my every thought before I did, but he sent no one to stop me, and I entered Mogi’s cell unhindered.

We chatted broadly, deliberately not talking about the case.  Everyone was doing well, he said.  Light and Misa were engaged.  Aizawa had shaved off his afro as part of a disguise.  Ide had joined the team officially, now that he wouldn’t have to deal directly with L (he didn’t say that last part, of course, but I knew what he meant).  Matsuda was Matsuda.  And the Chief…

“I know,” I said quickly, as he hesitated.  “I heard.  Mogi- _san_ , I’m so sorry.  If I’d been with you, then maybe…”

He shook his head.  “Nothing you could’ve done.  Just one of those things.”  But there was a deep sadness in his eyes.  He had loved the Chief as much as we all had, and he must have been devastated.  I placed my little hand on top of his massive one, and he rearranged his hand to give mine a squeeze.

I showed him the one picture I’d taken of Akito.  It was from when he was a newborn, looking just like any other newborn, indistinguishable from his current self.  Mogi’s eyes widened when he saw it.  “Yours?” he blurted out in surprise.  “And Ryuzaki’s?”

I nodded, feeling another stab of pain at the mention of my loss.  “I named him after his dad.  He’s…he’s just like him.”  My vision started to blur, so I looked away and blinked rapidly.

“Wow,” Mogi said simply. 

“Yeah…oh, right, I guess I’d never said anything to anyone, huh?” The plan had been to tell Yagami before I got on the plane at Yokohama, but in all the confusion and grief of what came after, I’d completely forgotten.

He nodded.  “We didn’t realize.  Sorry.”

I frowned at him.  “For what?”

Mogi hesitated, looking a little guilty.  “Well…some of us – not everyone – thought you left because…uh…”

“Because I was afraid for my life, or because I’d given up after Ryuzaki died,” I finished for him.  “Because I’m a coward, right?” He didn’t answer.  I smiled.  “It’s okay, Mogi- _san_.  I did run away, and I am a coward.  Just not coward enough to risk my baby.” 

He nodded in understanding.  “He still have black hair?”

“Who, little Ryuzaki? Yeah, why?”

He looked satisfied.  “Matsuda owes me five thousand yen.”

“Wha – oh, yeah, the bet.  I’d forgotten.  We had some fun, huh? Even with the case.”

“Yeah.”  We fell silent, mourning what was lost.

The wake was cut short, however, by a blaring alarm.  Mogi clapped his hands over his ears, and I scrambled to my feet, reaching for my gun.  Something was going wrong.  Where had I left Akito? Could I get to him in time?

The door burst open, and Gevanni rushed in.  If he was surprised to see me here, he didn’t show it.  “We need to get going now!” he said, out of breath.  “We’re under attack!”

-

In the control room, the monitors were blaring with activity.  They all showed the same picture: the angry mob of Kira supporters and ineffectual defense of the riot police, swarming our building like so many ants.  Half of the monitors showed the feed from our own security cameras.  The other half was the live feed of a television crew – and not the news.

Near pointed at one screen.  “Look how they’re focusing on the front doors.  They’re waiting for us to come out, so that someone with the Eyes can see our faces.”

“They” being Demegawa (who had been the Sakura TV head of programming at the time of the Second Kira incident) and the crew of his television show “Kira’s Kingdom.”  For the past few months, he had sucked in viewers by claiming that he was Kira’s spokesperson.  I’d thought it was just nonsense made up for ratings, but given the fact that he had just incited a riot and somehow figured out where to send it – within days of Mogi’s arrival, no less – there was apparently some truth to the claim.  As for Light, he must have had someone else tailing Mogi, so he knew which building he had gone into.

We had to think fast if we wanted to get out of here with our lives.  Correctly assuming that Demegawa valued material wealth more than Kira’s ideals, Near made arrangements to drop an enormous amount of money (apparently bequeathed to him by L) on the crowd, thereby distracting both the mob and the camera crew.  With the doors unwatched, the SPK, Mogi, and I could sneak out dressed in the riot police uniforms and full-face helmets Near had somehow gotten his hands on (at this point, I knew better than to ask). 

“One problem,” I piped up.  “The six of us can pass for police, but not Ryuzaki.”  Akito clung to my leg and nodded, frightened again.

Near thought a moment.  “That’s true…I suppose there’s nothing for it but to go out the back way.  There isn’t a helmet in Ryuzaki’s size, but you ought to take one, C.” 

“…You kicked up all that fuss about him living here, but you didn’t prepare any protection for him?”

“It’s not like there are child-sized riot police uniforms.  And my hope was that we wouldn’t have to escape like this.”

“Still…”

There was no more time; the doors would give any minute.  As he and the others suited up, Near quickly gave me the address where we would meet up – apparently he had thought far enough ahead to prepare identical SPK headquarters in five separate buildings, at least.  Then he gave the order for the distraction.  A large helicopter joined Demegawa’s flock of whirligigs and immediately began dumping what had to be a million dollars out the window to the crowd below.  It worked just as planned; the mob forgot their holy mission and scrambled to pick up as much cash as possible, and Demegawa was too distracted by his own greed to control his camera crew.  Taking advantage, Near, Mogi, and the others rushed for the lobby, while I donned my own helmet and ran for the back entrance, Akito in my arms with his face against my shoulder.

Six flights of stairs later, I burst through the door and into the crisp fall air.  The noise of the mobs and the copters was deafening, but it didn’t look like they had noticed this entrance.  I quickly glanced around to get my bearings, then dashed around the side of the building toward the street Near had indicated…

…right into view of another helicopter, on which one Sakura TV cameraman still seemed to be doing his job.  As he caught my movement, the copter swung around, and I spotted the lens of his camera glinting in the sunlight.

I seized up, completely frozen, like the sight of the camera had turned me to stone.  My knees wobbled, and I thought for a minute that I would fall over.  The black point of the camera split into two little orbs, glowing red and gleaming with malice.  They couldn’t see me through my helmet, but Akito…

“God, no,” I heard myself whisper.

Then I felt Akito twist in my arms, and I looked down in horror to see that he had turned to face the camera, eyes narrowed practically to slits and cheeks flushed.  He, my easy-going and unruffled little child, looked angrier than I’d ever seen him.

“Go away!” he shouted in Japanese over the roar of the copter.  “Leave my mother alone! She’s not a criminal, and she’s not a bad person, either! _You’re_ the bad person, Kira!”

The words were hardly out of his mouth when I gained control of my legs again and ran for cover as fast as I could.  The noise of the copter gradually began to fade; evidently, the spectacle at the front entrance made for better television than one masked woman and her child.  I sprinted through the crowds, drawing strange looks and shouts, until at last I came upon a deserted alley.  The noise of the mob and copters were far behind me.  For now, we were safe.

I lifted the visor of my helmet and glared at Akito.  “Why did you do that? I told you, you had to hide your face! Someone with the Eyes could have seen your name just above your head, and what would you have done then?!” I was shaking from anger and fear, and my voice had risen to a shout.

Akito looked up at me in confusion, all traces of fear gone.  “He wouldn’t have killed me, Mama,” he explained, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.  “He doesn’t gain anything from it, or from hurting you, as long as you’re both so far away from each other.  If he killed a little kid like me on TV, then the people would hate him, right? He doesn’t want to do that.”

I blinked at him, thrown off guard by his logic.  “W-Well, that could be true…but you had no way of knowing if that’s what Kira was thinking, right? He could have killed you anyway.”

To my amazement, Akito shrugged.  “Then he would’ve been watching me, instead of Near and the others.  They would’ve gotten away.  That’s fine with me.”

My mouth fell open slightly.  Then, fueled by hysteria, I burst out laughing.  It took me a long time to get myself under control.  “Oh, man…here I thought you were just a mini-version of your dad, but you really do take after me, too, don’t you?” Akito beamed.  “But you’re still in big trouble, mister.  No Sherlock for a week.”

“Aw…”


	33. 5.5: Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death Note (c) 2003 Ohba Tsugumi and Obata Takeshi. Another Note: The Los Angeles BB Murder Cases (c) 2006 Nisio Isin. All rights reserved.

**Chapter 5: Reunion**

-November 27th, 2009-

Near lost no time in launching his counterattack.  As soon as L-Kira called to “make sure Near was safe,” the younger boy gave the false report that Mogi had died of a heart attack, and that someone had to come and fetch his body.  He also revealed the piece of information Mello had told him: that he had confirmed, through the Shinigami who had come to take Higuchi’s notebook back to its own world, that the 13 day rule at the back of the book was fake.  Finally, he addressed the remaining Taskforce members directly, saying that if any of them harbored suspicions that they had up till now kept secret, they ought to come to the SPK headquarters and tell Near in confidence.

I listened to all this silently, having not yet revealed my presence to the Taskforce.  So _that_ had been what Mello wanted to say to Near that night.  I hadn’t followed him back to headquarters, and I’d never asked Near if Mello had come by.  This new bit of information was a game-changer.  L was right – the 13 day rule, the one thing that broke apart our case against Light and Misa, was completely erroneous.  The confinement meant nothing now.  It wasn’t over yet.

Within twenty-four hours, L-Kira had sent his undertaker.  I waited for him, Mogi by my side, in front of the elevator by our new command center.  The doors slid apart, and an unfamiliar middle-aged Japanese man with the beginnings of a scraggly beard strode out.

He stopped short when he saw us standing there.  “Mogi! Near said that you – Casey- _san_?!”

My jaw dropped; I’d recognized the voice issuing out of the stranger’s mouth.  “ _Aizawa-_ san? Is that you? What – what the hell did you do to your hair?!”  Too late, I remembered Mogi saying that Aizawa had shaved his head. 

“I-I cut it! What’s wrong with that?”

“Oh, my God, _everything_ is wrong with that!”

“It doesn’t look that bad!”

“No, but it’s just so…so not-Aizawa.  Christ, you know that I called you Afro-Man when I first met you? What am I supposed to call you now?”

“My name, of course!”

The three of us stared at each other, then, as if on cue, burst out laughing. 

“Oh, wow,” Aizawa managed to say at last, wiping a tear from his eye.  “You two sure gave me a shock.  Looks like Near got us good this time.”

“Yeah, he does that.”

“Yeah…” The smile on Aizawa’s face faded as he took a closer look at me.  “You okay, Casey- _san_? No offense, but you look terrible.”

“None taken.  I haven’t gotten much sleep lately.  Not for five years, in fact.”

“Oh…”

After an awkward pause, I escorted the two of them into the control center, then waited by the back wall, listening to the conversation.  Aizawa was a bit thrown at first, both by Near’s eccentricity and the presence of Akito, but his time with L had somewhat steeled him against the unusual, and he said his piece as though he were talking to anyone else.  Bothered by Near’s claim that the 13 day rule was fake (as if it could be anything else), he ended up telling the SPK everything about L’s previous investigations, with the notable exception of the suspects’ names.  In particular, he revealed that L had confined two people for more than fifty days, but had cleared them of suspicion upon discovery of the fake rule.  When Near asked if he had dropped the charges voluntarily, Aizawa confirmed that the Taskforce had forced his hand, using Chief Yagami’s car stunt as their final proof.  Hearing that, Near suggested that Kira had orchestrated the confinement himself as a means of clearing himself of suspicion. 

I felt my face grow stony as I mulled this over.  Could that really be what happened? It was true that Light had volunteered to be confined of his own free will, and that his sudden about-face from I’m-definitely-not-Kira to I-might-be-Kira had been extremely odd.  But to anticipate events that far in advance, and not get a single prediction wrong…it seemed next to impossible.  Not even L, unfamiliar as he had been with basic human behavior, would be that certain of what would happen.  Perhaps Light’s powers of reasoning really were godlike…

No.  The second I started thinking like that, I would have already lost.  Light was at the least a human, and at the most a devil.  His power could be countered by other humans.  And, at the end of the day, the only thing he had to defend himself was a pen and a piece of paper.  I had a gun.  Even a child knew which one was better.

When the interrogation was over, Aizawa requested that, rather than return to the Taskforce in Los Angeles, he and Mogi return to Japan to conduct an investigation of their own.  Near agreed and asked Rester to drive them to LaGuardia.  I followed them down to the lobby to see them off, but when we got down there, Aizawa asked Rester and Mogi to go on ahead, as he had something he needed to ask me.  Rester looked doubtful, but Mogi – almost twice his size – practically dragged him out the door.

When we were alone, Aizawa looked at me with an unusually determined look on his face.  “That kid in there,” he began without preamble.  “He looks a lot like – like Ryuzaki.”

I swallowed a fresh shot of pain.  “He should.  He’s his son.”

Aizawa started.  “Really? Is he…is he yours?”

“That’s right.”

Aizawa chuckled quietly.  “So that’s why you left…man, even when you say that, I can hardly picture that.”

“What, me giving up work to have a kid?”

“No, _Ryuzaki_ having a kid.  You know, uh, _making_ a kid.”

I held up one hand.  “I’m going to stop you right there.  That’s between me and the dead guy, so if you want to find out details, you’ll have to hold a séance.”

“I-I don’t want details! Gross…”

We fell silent again.  Aizawa was fidgeting, opening his mouth like he wanted to say something but then promptly closing it again.  I crossed my arms over my chest and waited, somewhat uneasy.  The atmosphere felt charged, like there was a storm on the horizon.

Finally, Aizawa bit the bullet.  “So you’re back at work.  Working for Near.”  _And not with us_ , came the silent accusation.

I gave a tiny shrug.  “Not really.  I’m not playing any active role in the investigation; I’m just keeping an eye on Near’s progress.  And Mello’s, too, for that matter.”  Mello had not contacted me since that night, but it seemed he had struck up a wary alliance with Halle Lidner.  She, not caring who caught Kira so long as he was caught, passed along regular updates of Mello’s movements. 

Aizawa blinked, looking as bewildered as Matsuda.  “Wait, hang on.  You’re not investigating at all? What’s the point of you even being here, then? And with your kid, no less!” His voice had started to take on its familiar abrasive tinge, which made me smile just a tiny bit.

“It’s what – what Ryuzaki wanted,” I explained in a tight voice.  “If Mello and Near couldn’t work together on the case – and they mix like oil and water, trust me – then they’d go at it like a competition.  You found out about Watari’s orphanage when you were investigating Mello, right?” He nodded.  “Well, then you know about the succession program.  Mello and Near are both candidates, and the Kira case is the final test.  I’m not to give them any hints, or tell them anything about the previous investigation – it defeats the purpose if they can’t get to the point L was at on their own – but I can keep tabs on them.”

My explanation didn’t seem to have cleared things up for Aizawa.  “So you can watch them investigate, but you don’t do any investigating yourself.  Somehow, I can’t picture you being okay with that.  Weren’t you and Light- _kun_ –” The casual throwing-out of the name made a jolt rush down my spine, but I kept my face neutral.  “– the ones who pushed Ryuzaki and the rest of us to keep investigating before we zeroed in on Yotsuba?”

I shrugged again.  “It’s what Ryuzaki asked me to do, so I don’t mind.  And it’s not like I’m just rolling over.  If neither Mello nor Near – or you guys, for that matter – can’t catch Kira within a certain amount of time, then I’ll stop him myself.”

  Aizawa’s frown deepened.  “How d’you expect to do that? If you’re not investigating now, then you’ll be light-years behind everyone else.  You might miss the evidence you need.”

“Who said anything about needing evidence?”

“The law? The courts? You can’t bring Kira to justice if you don’t – hang on.”  His eyes widened, and his face drained of color.  “Are you…are you seriously suggesting that…?”

I said nothing.  I didn’t need to – Aizawa was a lousy police officer, but he wasn’t stupid.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me! In what universe is that considered justice? You do that, you’re no better than Kira! Maybe _worse_ , even – for all you can prove, you might be killing an innocent man!”

I didn’t falter.  “After everything you heard over the past few days, do you honestly still believe that to be the case?”

He hesitated, and I enjoyed two seconds of victory before he rallied.  “Okay, how ‘bout this? You just said that you don’t mind sitting by ‘cause Ryuzaki asked you to do it.  Do you think Ryuzaki would want you to what you’re planning? Leaving his child all alone as a result?”

“I don’t know what Ryuzaki would want!” I snapped, the reference to Akito morphing my guilt into rage.  “I won’t ever get a chance to ask him what he wants, because he’s dead! That’s why I have to do this!”

 _But that’s not true,_ a little voice at the back of my head whispered.  _You know what he wanted – he said so in the video.  You’re just ignoring it for your own sake, aren’t you?_

I shook my head so fast I grew dizzy.  “There comes a point,” I said firmly, more to myself than Aizawa, “when you have to put the greater good over one person’s needs.  Or even two or three people.”

Realizing that his usual bluster would get him nowhere, he switched tactics.  “Look, I get it,” he said in a soothing voice, the kind a zookeeper would use to calm a rampaging animal.  “You lost someone important to you, and now you don’t know what to do with yourself.  I was just the same when Ukita died.”

In spite of myself, I snorted.  “Unless you have some very serious explaining to do to your wife, I don’t think our situations are the same at all.”

He scowled.  “Well, not like that, but – you remember, right? Ukita was by himself when he died.  None of us knew it until those cameras started rolling.  Just like with you two, I didn’t realize what was happening till it was too late.  I’d just let him run out of the room, without realizing it was my last chance to tell him how much he meant to me…I think that guilt, more than the money or L’s attitude, was the reason why I left the Taskforce that time.  I just…I couldn’t go through that again.”

A shadow of pain flitted across his face, but he pulled himself together and when on.  “But I came back, right? I came back because I realized that I didn’t have to deal with it by myself.  There was everyone else, dealing with the same shit but still getting the job done, ‘cause they were all standing behind each other and helping everyone else out.”  He smiled at me and placed a hand on my shoulder in an almost fatherly way.  “You don’t have to do this alone.  You don’t have to carry the entire burden yourself.  We can help you, and we _want_ to help you, so have a little faith in us.”

“ _Faith_? In _you_?” I slapped his hand away.  “Five years you’ve been investigating this, and you’re no closer now than you were when Ryuzaki died.  And before, the _entire_ time, you people blocked us at every turn, and look what happened! Look at the world! Kira’s all but won!”

He winced.  “I-I know that…but listen, it’s different now.  If the 13 day rule really is fake, then it’s possible –”

“It’s _possible_?!” I was shrieking now, but I couldn’t care less.  “You’re _still_ doubting what’s right in front of you? Christ, Aizawa, _this_ is why I can’t rely on anyone else – literally everyone I try to put faith in either ends up dead or useless.  I’m the only one who walks away, every single time.  The only person I can count on is myself.”

Anger flashed in his eyes again.  “You know what I think? I think you’re just a coward.  You’re too scared to do things the way they ought to be done, so you just give up and turn into the one thing Ryuzaki hated the most.  You’re just as dead as he is, Casey.”

“You’re right, but coward or not, I’ll do more my way than you ever did doing yours.”

“Casey –!”

I’d had enough.  “You’ll miss your flight,” I said shortly, and turned away with my eyes closed.  He blustered for a few more minutes, then gave up and stomped out of the lobby, trying without success to slam the revolving door.  I waited until his footsteps and muffled oaths died away before opening my eyes.

To my surprise, I wasn’t alone.  Near was standing – actually _standing_ – in front of the elevator, twirling a lock of hair between two fingers and looking at me with a carefully blank expression.  I hadn’t heard him come down, but I didn’t doubt he’d been listening to the whole thing.

“Got something to say?” I growled, looking at him through narrowed eyes.

“Yagami Light,” he said simply.

Whatever I was expecting to hear, it wasn’t that.  Surprise eased my glare.  “Excuse me?”

“Kira’s true identity, and the identity of the Second L, is Yagami Light.”  He spoke as if that fact were as obvious as the color of the sky.

I blinked at him.  Where did this confidence come from? An hour ago, he didn’t even know Yagami Light existed, and one vague conversation with Aizawa was enough to make him zero in on the truth? There hadn’t even been any names mentioned.  “What’s your reasoning?”

Something in my voice or expression must have tipped him off, for he smiled.  I’d never seen him smile before, even as a baby, and right away, I could tell I didn’t like it.  L and Akito had never been smilers, either, but on the rare occasions they did, they were little and cute and made me feel warm inside.  _This_ smile was forced and creepy, like he had only some idea of what a smile was supposed to look like.  Had he been showing his teeth at all, it would have been uncomfortably similar to B’s slasher grin.  I couldn’t suppress a shudder.  _Is this guy really the right choice to succeed L?_

It was Aizawa’s account of the Chief’s ruse that did it, Near told me.  According to him, right before Yagami had pretended to pull the trigger, he had shouted that he would kill the suspect, and then kill himself.  The only thing that would inspire that sort of emotional reaction, Near reasoned, was if the suspect was related to Yagami, most likely a member of the immediate family.  The wife was out of the question, as was the daughter, or else she would have been able to escape Mello’s capture on her own.  The only other option – and, based on all of Aizawa’s other information on the case, the only one who fit the original profile – was the son, Light.

I listened to all this quietly, like I was searching for the logic in his argument.  Near waited, no longer smiling but still twirling that bit of hair.  An obnoxious habit, even for one of L’s scions.  I’d have to introduce him to a brush one day.

“Exactly right,” I said at last.  “The original L did indeed suspect Yagami Light of being Kira.  Well done, Near.”

He nodded, still expressionless.  “Looks like I win, then.”

“Not yet.  The job’s only half done; you still need to catch him.”  I elbowed past him and stepped into the elevator.  “And by the way,” I said before the doors closed, “Your time’s half up, so you better work fast.”

-

-December 11th, 2009-

Kira was not idle, either.  Two days after his failure in New York, Demegawa and his confederates died of heart attacks, live on their show.  A week after that, Kira himself chose (if the rumors were true, and I had no doubt that they were) a much more credible and serious spokesperson as his replacement: Takada Kiyomi, the evening news anchor for NHN.

“I know her!” I blurted out as soon as I saw her on screen.  “She went to school with Yagami Light.  Mogi said they were in a relationship.”

Near’s eyes narrowed.  “If that’s true, then choosing her as his spokeswoman is a really stupid move.  It’s not like Yagami.”

How the hell would he know what Yagami was like, when he had never met the man? “He could have assumed we’d _think_ that,” I suggested grumpily, “and chose her anyway to throw us off.”

He shook his head.  “No, I get the feeling that he’s not the one who picked Takada.  Now that Mr. Aizawa and Mr. Mogi have begun to suspect him, it’s possible that he can no longer move on his own.  In that case, he would need to pick a new Kira…”

One all-nighter’s worth of “Kira’s Kingdom” reruns later, he had his suspect: a twenty-something public prosecutor named Mikami Teru.  According to Near, he had attended almost every recording and made several speeches during the audience participation portion of the show, showing a mindset and ideology very similar – if a tiny bit more extreme – to the original Kira’s. 

“If I were Kira,” Near concluded as he stacked dice into an ornate palace, “I’d think Mikami would be the ideal henchman.”

Gevanni’s nose wrinkled as he read over Mikami’s profile.  “A public prosecutor…so even the legal system’s starting to bow to Kira.  Disgusting.”

“It’s no surprise,” Near replied.  “They’re only reflecting a popular opinion.”  He glanced at me as I said it.  I said nothing.

With his target chosen, Near sent Gevanni to Japan so that he might tail Mikami and look for any indication that he was indeed using a Death Note.  Lidner went with him, so that she could covertly investigate Spokeswoman Takada under the guise of one of her team of bodyguards.  In one of their increasingly-hostile communiques, L-Kira informed us that the Taskforce, too, would be returning to Japan to investigate Takada.  Rester was already there, having flown in with Aizawa and Mogi so that he would have an easier time conducting Light’s background investigation.

“You ought to come back right away, though,” Near told him during one of their video chats, right after Gevanni and Lidner confirmed their safe arrival.  “I should go to Japan, too.”

He frowned.  “So I should mind the headquarters while you’re here?”

Near shook his head.  “I need you to help me get there.  I’ve never made travel arrangements before.”

Rester looked flabbergasted, and I quickly cut in before he could say something insubordinate.  “I’ve got it, Agent Rester.  You go ahead and get started on the new HQ, and we’ll join you tomorrow.”

Near looked surprised – or as surprised as Near could look, anyway.  “You’re coming, too?”

“Why wouldn’t I? Or do you not want me there?”

“It’s not that.”  He nodded to Akito, who was sitting in the corner, absorbed in his book.  “You’d be closer to Kira, and the probability of running into him would increase.  Ryuzaki would be in greater danger.”

“Ryuzaki’s already in greater danger,” I pointed out.  “The quickest way to ensure his safety is to take out Kira as soon as possible.  For that, I’d like to be there.”

He tilted his head to the side.  “Oh, so you’re investigating with us now?”

“…Go get your damn suitcase.”

He nodded at his toy chest.  “Done.”

Great.  Air travel with not one, but two children.  Abigail was off visiting relatives, so I’d be all on my own.  I was gaining more and more appreciation for Mr. Wammy every day. 

-

Thankfully, it wasn’t as bad as all that.  I did get plenty of strange looks in the airport, mostly due to the fact that Near refused to change out of his pajamas, but the two of them were manageable enough.  The older boy had been on an airplane only once in his life, and looked around the airport with wide-eyed wonder, but clung childishly to my hand the whole time, fearful of the crowds of fellow travelers (though I doubt he would ever admit it).  The younger, for whom travel was an old hat, kept his headphones in the whole time, listening to his book on tape.  There were no problems with our forged passports, and we got up in the air without incident.   

About halfway through the flight, I gave Akito his medication – he never slept on airplanes, and unlike his father, he showed rare irritability when he didn’t sleep – and waited for him to drift off.  I considered taking a few pills of my own, but as I reached for my bag, I noticed Near staring at me.  Up until now, he had been too focused on his toy robot (the same one I’d gotten for him as a child, I noted with some satisfaction), but now he was staring at me like I would disappear if he blinked.

I shifted uncomfortably.  “Something wrong?”

“Yes, actually.  I’ve been thinking about your argument with Mr. Aizawa, and I’ve decided that I also would rather you didn’t kill Yagami Light, if you can help it.”

I glanced around in a panic, but the other passengers were either asleep or too involved in their own business to pay attention.  “Keep it down!” I hissed at him.  “That kind of talk on an airplane could get us arrested.  And what’s it to you, anyway? You act on logic, and that would be the logical next step if you can’t catch him.”

“That’s true,” Near agreed.  “Please don’t misunderstand me; I don’t agree with Mr. Aizawa because of his reasoning.  I agree because a scenario in which you kill Yagami Light can only exist if it follows a scenario in which I fail to capture him – in other words, if I lose.”  His expression changed ever so lightly to one suggesting something like determination.  “I refuse to let that happen.”

I snorted.  “Yeah, that figures.  That’s how they taught you to think, right? Win or die, succeed one-hundred percent or fail one-hundred percent.”

“Of course.  That’s how it is at the House.  All of us thought that way, even Mello and Matt.  Especially Mello, I ought to say.”

“Right…”  I didn’t say anything for a long time, long enough for Near to lose interest and go back to his toy.  When I spoke at last, tapping into the feelings I had tried so hard to repress for fifteen years, it was like a torrent of water bursting a dam.  “I’m sorry, Near.  I’m sorry I left you, and I’m sorry you were left in that place alone.  I wanted so badly to protect you from it, but I was too selfish to even try.  If I’d only found some way to take you with me that night, maybe things would have been better for you…”  The ghostly echo of little Nate’s cries behind the door weighed heavily on my heart, and I shook my head in vain to try and banish the memory.

Near was quiet for so long that I wondered if he had even heard me.  When I looked over at him, I was met with the expression of bewildered distaste he reserved for those – like Vice President Sairas or Demegawa – whom he found incredibly idiotic.

“What do you mean, better?” he asked flatly.  “My life hasn’t been bad at all.”

I blinked.  “Huh? But…but the Program –”

“Was fun.  I think.  That’s the closest to fun I’ve ever felt, anyway.”  He went back to his robot.  “It’s not that I don’t understand how an experience like that can be harmful to many people.  For me, though, those conditions were the best possible environment for me to develop my talents.  That was the ideal leaning style for my brain, and if those conditions hadn’t been provided for me, I would have sought them out myself.  Anything else would have meant that I’d never reach my full potential.  L probably was the same way, which is why those were the conditions Roger tried to replicate when creating his copy.”  He shot me an unreadable look.  “Don’t assume that just because something doesn’t work for you, it doesn’t work for everyone.”

Chastised, I said nothing.  Of course that was how it was.  Near and I – and L and I, for that matter – were as different as apples and oranges, so of course it would’ve been different.  Taking him away might have actually harmed him, and for all I knew, he would have ended up with this exact same personality no matter how he grew up.  Suddenly I felt like an enormous fool. 

“Sorry, Near,” I mumbled at last.  “I was wrong.”

His expression softened a little.  “No, it’s possible for a train of thought to be wrong without a person being wrong.  You wanted me to be taken care of, and I was – the truth was just a little different from what you imagined.”  He put the robot down and, for the first time, made direct eye contact with me.  “And if a person can have one wrong thought, they can have others, too.”

I bristled.  “And just what does that mean?”

“I was very young when we were at the House together, so I know my memories can’t be taken one-hundred percent as fact.  However, I can tell you that if Roger hadn’t told me who you were, and I hadn’t confirmed it through my own channels, I never would have recognized you.  And not just because of your face.”

“Meaning…?”

“Meaning Mr. Aizawa isn’t as stupid as he looks.”  He went back to his robot and did not speak for the rest of the flight.

-

-December 12th, 2009-

The SPK set up its Tokyo headquarters in the Teito hotel – coincidentally, in the very suite where L had first revealed himself to the Taskforce.  Naturally, I found the room stifling in all kinds of ways, and so left Akito in their care and excused myself to take care of some personal business.  Now that I was back on the battlefield, I needed to do some recon.

First things first: I needed to confirm that Misa had lost her ownership of the Death Note again.  Unless there were yet another notebook in Light’s possession, I couldn’t think of another way he would have been able to get a notebook to Mikami, nor why he couldn’t just use Misa in the first place.  Misa answered her phone right away, and judging by the shock with which she answered, it was clear that our meeting the month before had escaped her memory – or was forced out.

She immediately gave me the address of the apartment which she shared with Light, and when I arrived, she flung open the door and hugged me with more strength than I thought it possible for her little body to possess.

“I’m so glad to see you!” she squealed.  Then she broke away and pouted prettily.  “Why haven’t you come before now?! I’ve been calling and calling for five years, and you haven’t picked up even once! I was starting to think that you…th-th-that you…”  Her eyes filled with tears.

I gleaned her meaning right away, and decided against telling her how close I’d come, or how many times.  “Don’t worry,” I assured her.  “I promised Ryuzaki I wouldn’t let myself die until I caught Kira for him.  I intend to keep that promise.”

More to the point, no contact for five years? Not even a month had passed since Los Angeles.  Misa was a ditz, but not that big of a ditz.  The only way she could forget something like that would be if her mind was wiped – which meant no notebook, which meant Mikami was indeed a Kira.

She brought me in to a cozy, very homelike living room, where I was surprised to see Mogi sitting on the couch reading a newspaper.  He started when he saw me, but greeted me as if we hadn’t seen each other in years.  I followed his lead.  “What on earth are you doing in Misa- _chan_ ’s apartment?”

Misa answered for him.  “Oh, Light sent him over to keep me company.  He’s been working such long hours lately, so he must’ve realized I was lonely.  Isn’t he thoughtful?” Her eyes sparkled as she spoke of him.  Happy as ever, and far less self-aware. 

 _Light sent him_ …bull.  This was obviously part of Aizawa and Mogi’s separate investigation; he must’ve had the same idea I had, to see if Misa was still acting as the Second Kira.  While our host went to the kitchen to fix some drinks, I mouthed the word “notebook” to Mogi.  He gestured around the whole room, shaking his head.  _If it’s here, we haven’t found it._

I killed some time catching up with Misa.  Casually, I mentioned that I’d left the investigation to raise my child, and she reacted predictably, gushing with surprise and delight that I was a mother, though she reigned it in a little and squeezed my hand in sympathy when I told her who the father was.  She asked all sort of questions about the baby – questions she definitely should have known the answer to, having seen him with her own eyes, which gave me final confirmation of her mental state.  I answered vaguely, then changed the subject to her engagement.  As expected, she forgot all about me and prattled on about how romantic the proposal was and what sort of wedding she wanted.  It took me back to another bride-to-be, another victim of Kira, and I listened with renewed conviction.  I would not let Misa become another Naomi.

After three hours, I was able to break away, taking with me the address to Light’s second apartment where the Taskforce worked and orders to give him Misa’s love.  Once freed, I loitered on the street for a minute, not sure what I ought to be doing.  There would be no purpose in going to Taskforce headquarters, beyond perhaps gloating to Light that I was still alive and there was nothing he could do about it.  I was in no danger of death by going there; Light did not have the Shinigami Eyes himself, or else he would not need an outside helper in the first place.  Still, there was always the risk that Light or myself would fly off the handle and attempt to kill each other with bare hands, consequences be damned.  And, really, what would be the point of it all?

In the end, though, I went anyway.  My declaration of the Taskforce’s uselessness to Aizawa hadn’t been a lie, but it wasn’t like I thought badly of them.  In fact, the thought of seeing them again actually sounded…good.  Maybe it was the talk with Misa, or what Near had said on the plane, but I was feeling incredibly nostalgic all of a sudden, longing for the days when all I had to worry about was Light and L punching each other’s faces in.  Getting back even the tiniest bit of that, even for the shortest moment, would be nice.

The apartment that served as the new Taskforce Headquarters was only about a ten minute walk from Misa’s apartment.  If Light really wanted to, he could’ve gone to see her – hell, he could’ve gone to see her if he wanted to even a little bit.  _Personality defects really don’t come in half-measures_ , I mused as I ascended the steps and knocked on the door.

After about five minutes, the door cracked open a little bit, and I saw one eye peek out.  “H-Hello, can I – CASEY- _SAN_!”  A familiar figure tried to open the door, but the deadbolt held fast, and he had to fumble with it for about two minutes before he could open the door fully and beam out at me. 

I beamed back, succumbing again to his infectious good-humor.  “Nice haircut, Matsuda- _san_.”

Matsuda didn’t so much hug me as throw himself at me, sobbing like a child and demanding why I hadn’t come earlier.  At length, I was able to shove him off, but he only grabbed me by the hand and led me inside, calling out in a loud voice for his fellows to see who was here.

The space which would be a living room in any other apartment had been transformed into a mini-control center, packed with as many monitors and computing equipment that it could fit.  There were only two other people sitting at the workstations; to my relief, neither of them were Aizawa.  The older one stood up to shake my hand awkwardly, and it took me a moment to recognize him as Ide, the one who couldn’t trust L enough to work with him.  And the other…

“Light- _kun_ ,” I greeted airily.  To my own credit and no little disbelief, I managed to smile at him.  “Look at you, Mr. Working Man.  So the NPA made it official after all.”

Light, for his part, looked as shocked and pleased to see me as one could expect – though I wasn’t sure which of those emotions, if any, was genuine.  He even managed to surprise me with a hug, squeezing just a little bit too hard.  If he was thinking of our earlier run-in, it didn’t show on his face.  There was, however, just the smallest chink in his armor, and for just a split second, I saw the depths of his hatred reflected in his eyes, amplified by the knowledge that I was right in front of him and he could do nothing about it.  I hoped with all my heart that my own face matched his.

Then I blinked, and he was beaming again.  “Wow, Casey- _san_ , I’m so glad to see you!” He sounded like it, too, the faker.  “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it? You look – great.”

I forced a laugh.  “Go on, say it.  I’m a wreck, and I know it.”

He winced apologetically.  “You look like you could use some sleep.”  His expression became somber and disgustingly empathetic.  “It, uh…hasn’t gotten any easier, huh?”

I didn’t have to ask what he meant, though I had to force myself not to clench my fists at his audacity.  “It never gets easier, no matter how much time passes.  You just get used to it.”  Then, remembering the part he was supposed to be playing, I arranged my face to match his.  “Light- _kun_ , I am so sorry.  What happened to poor Sayu- _chan_ was bad enough, but your dad…he was such a good man.  I know he’d be so proud of what you’re doing.”  _Forgive me, Soichiro._

The little bastard actually managed to blink back tears, like he hadn’t orchestrated the whole thing and gained no advantage from the loss of the Taskforce’s chief.  “Y-Yeah…thanks, Casey- _san_.  It’s, uh…it’s pretty bad timing, to say the least.”  He chuckled somewhat sadly.

“No kidding.”  _You should’ve double-checked your date book before committing patricide._

They set aside their work for a moment, and we chatted for a while about the old days.  The awkwardness of reunion after a long absence smothered, but did not deter us.  By accident, I was able to learn the exact nature of their investigation into Takada, thanks to Matsuda’s loose lips (to which Ide responded by smacking his junior upside the head).  Apparently, Light was meeting her in a hotel every night and having her communicate with Kira in ways that were beneficial to the Taskforce.  To convince her to do so, he was pretending to have carried a torch for her since his school days.  Aizawa had already passed on that piece of information to Near, but getting no new information at all could be just as telling as getting tons.  Aizawa was apparently telling us all he knew, putting him firmly in Near’s camp and cementing my certainty that he had begun to believe us at last.

“We had a scare the first time, so we can’t have cameras on,” Matsuda explained with a sly grin on his face, “but we have bugs, and they always go _reeeeeal_ quiet after a certain point.”

“Oh, I gotcha,” I said, and winked at Light.

He had the grace to blush.  “It’s for the investigation,” he mumbled.

“Is that what you told your fiancée?”

Now he looked pale.  “Please don’t tell her.  _Please_ don’t tell her.  None of it’s real, of course, but if she ever found out…”

I held up a hand to silence him.  “Relax, man.  I’m not that cruel.”  I had no interest in protecting his sham of a relationship, but if Misa ever found out, the sorrow would kill her.

In return for my accidental knowledge, I told the Taskforce that the SPK had relocated to Japan and had identified the suspect most likely to be Kira’s latest patsy.  “I can’t give any names, of course, but we’ve got a good feeling about this one.”  I watched Light out of the corner of my eye as I said this, but his face remained as unreadable as ever.

Matsuda, however, looked disturbed.  “‘We,’ huh? So Aizawa- _san_ had it wrong?”

“ _Matsuda_!” Light and Ide snapped together, and he recoiled as though struck.

Aha.  That was why the others were so tense.  I leaned back in my chair, visibly calm but inwardly on red-alert.  “So he did tell you.  How much did he say?”

They exchanged uncomfortable looks.  “He, uh…he said that you kinda gave up looking for Kira,” Matsuda answered in a guilty voice.

“Did he also say I was kinda making sure my child didn’t grow up without a mother?”

Apparently, he hadn’t.  They immediately broke into shocked uproar – or rather, Ide and Matsuda did.  Light looked thoughtful, processing this new but of information and merging it with the glimpse he’d gotten of the little boy I’d clutched to my chest as I ran.  I could practically see the gears in his head turning.

“I found out I was pregnant the day before – before,” I explained when I was no longer able to stave off their questions.  “He just turned four in July.  Ryuzaki – for his father.”  They fell silent, crushed by their new understanding of the depth of my loss.  I had to take several deep breaths before continuing.  “If it had just been my life at stake, I would’ve stayed with you guys as long as it took.  But I couldn’t risk my baby – I still can’t risk it.  That’s why I’m not doing any active work on the case.  If I die, I don’t have anyone to look after him. And there’s always the possibility that – that Kira could take him hostage.  I can’t let that happen, so I’ve stayed out of his way.”

Matsuda looked appalled.  “Oh, c’mon, Casey- _san_.  Kira may be a murderer, but he wouldn’t hurt a baby, no matter who the parents were.”

I faced him, but my eyes glanced over to meet Light’s.  “That’s not a gamble I’m willing to make.  We play fair or not at all.”

There it was – a security camera, or even a behaviorist like Morrello, would have been hard-pressed to pick it up, but I know I hadn’t imagined it.  As I watched, Light had given the tiniest, most imperceptible of nods.  Acknowledgment that, at the moment, Akito was out of bounds.  He wanted to beat me fairly, too.  If nothing else, I could consider that a victory.

-

I had walked about three blocks down from the Taskforce’s apartment and was considering calling a cab when a black car pulled up next to me and honked its horn.  I watched, one hand on my gun just in case, as the window rolled down and Aizawa stuck his face out.  “Hey,” he said, looking somewhat uncomfortable.

“Hey,” I said, my own face stony.  We looked at each other for a long time without saying anything.

“So Near’s in Japan now?” Aizawa managed at last.

I nodded.  “We all made it in this morning.  Want to go see him?”

“I just got off the phone with him, actually.  And then I…I started looking for you.  He told me you might be here.”

“What do you want with me? Think of a witty comeback?”

He flinched.  “Nah…I wanted to apologize.  You’re right, I have absolutely no idea what you’re going through.  Ukita was my best friend, but in your case, he was the father of your baby…of course you feel like you do.”

I nodded again, a little less curtly this time.  “Thank you, Aizawa- _san_.  I appreciate it.  And I’m sorry I said you all were useless.”

He laughed.  “Well, you weren’t exactly wrong…hey, got some time? There’s some place I want to show you.  Nothing weird,” he added, seeing the look on my face.  I raised an eyebrow, but walked around the front of the car and climbed into the passenger seat.

We drove a long time, almost out of the city.  Slowly, the skyscrapers and storefronts melted away, and I found that a large church had snuck up on us, as if it had simply popped up out of the ground.  Beyond it was a tiny cemetery.  My eyes widened, and I looked over at Aizawa with uncertainty.

He rubbed the back of his neck, deliberately looking away from me.  Two splotches of color had bloomed on his cheeks.  “Watari’s niece came to pick him up once the article went around,” he mumbled, “but we, uh…we weren’t sure what to do with…I mean, he was a foreigner, so we figured he didn’t want to be cremated like we do here, but, uh…”

Watari had had a niece, a small part of my brain focused on, desperate to block out what might reduce me to tears.  I’d never known that.  I’d never known a lot about him.  Why did he want to become an inventor? What inspired him to open the orphanages? What was his life like before L? I’d never asked, and now I’d never know.

Aizawa jerked his thumb in the direction of the graveyard.  “He’s in the back right corner.”

“…Thank you, Aizawa-san.” 

“We couldn’t really do much with the headstone.  Just his alias and the day he…well.  Matsuda said we should’ve put his birthday on there, but we didn’t know it, so…sorry.”

I shook my head.  “He didn’t know it, either.  He could guess the year, but he never knew his parents, so he couldn’t say what day he’d been born.  I had to make one up for him so we could celebrate.”  I smiled at the memory: the matter-of-fact way L had explained it all to me, the confusion at why anyone would want to celebrate the day they were born, the shock when I demanded he let me make one up for him, the little smile of thanks…

“Yeah? What day did you pick?”

“October 31st.  He loved Halloween.  You could probably guess why.”

He chuckled.  “Yeah, he had a hell of a sweet tooth.”  The smile faded.  “But, man, he died only five days after that, then…about how old was he?”

“A couple of years older than me.  Maybe twenty-five.”  I would turn twenty-eight in January.  I’d already outlived him by almost three years. 

Aizawa shook his head.  “Shit…”

“Yeah…”

We sat there in silence for a few minutes, then I thanked Aizawa again and climbed out of the car.  I checked in with the guard at the front gate, then slowly made my way to the back right corner.  Every step seemed to take a thousand years, and it was like I was dragging two boulders tied to my feet behind me.

The grave was easy to spot – it was the only one ill-kempt and without flowers.  The headstone was indeed very simple, inscribed with only “Ryuzaki, died 5 Nov., 2004” in big blocky letters.  I spent a long time staring at it.  It occurred to me that I ought to say a prayer or something, but I couldn’t think of what to say.  No one would be listening, anyway.

Unless…could L hear me, wherever he was? Improbable, but what did I know?

“Hi,” I croaked, trying and failing to smile.  “Sorry it took me so long to get here.”

There was no sound, no breeze in the grass or birdsong or anything.  I sat down before the grave and hugged my knees to my chest.  Without warning, the words poured forth from me.  I told him about Misa, about Mello, about Near.   I told him about Akito, and how proud they would be of each other.  I told him about the piece of cake I’d had for dessert at lunch, and other meaningless little details about my daily life.

And finally, finally, I managed to tell him what mattered.  “I know you’re probably upset with me, since you sent that video telling me to live my life and all…the thing is, I’m not sure…what my life ought to be right now.  You were such an influence on me for so long that I just don’t know how to live without you anymore.  And I know that’s not good or healthy or anything, but that’s how it is.”  I chuckled through my tears.  “You’re the one who said that if it were me instead, you’d follow me right away, so don’t get angry at me.

“I’m close, L.  I can feel it.  Kira will be dead once and for all before too long, and then it’ll be safe again, just like you wanted.  So please…hang on just a little longer.  And, if you can, give me just a little of the strength you had.  And some for our beautiful baby, too.”

The tears were blinding me now, and I could barely talk, but I couldn’t stop now.  “I love you, L.  I will always, always love you, no matter how many years pass.  And I hope…I hope I can see you soon.”


	34. 5.6: Head and Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death Note (c) 2003 Ohba Tsugumi and Obata Takeshi. Another Note: The Los Angeles BB Murder Cases (c) 2006 Nisio Isin. All rights reserved.

**Chapter 6: Head and Heart**

-December 25th, 2009-

“Take a look there,” Rester said, pointing at the monitor.  “Does it look like he’s talking to himself to you?”

I followed his gaze.  The monitor was showing a direct feed from Gevanni’s camera, which was showing Mikami – a tall, bespectacled man whose appearance reminded me of my old adversary Lind L. Tailor, much to my unease – taking his lunch break in a local park.  For the past two weeks, Gevanni had dogged our suspect’s every step and had managed to stay out of sight, but it was only four days ago that the long surveillance paid off: Gevanni had actually witnessed Mikami using the Death Note to kill a would-be rapist on a train.  At that, Near had formally declared Mikami to be a suspect, but for my part, I felt like something was off.  Using the notebook in public to kill someone not thirty feet away from you? Light would have never sanctioned such a risky move.  Of course, the whole basis of using Mikami in the first place was because Light could not move freely, so perhaps they could not communicate at all, or only through Takada.  Still, Mikami had taken a picture of his victim on his cell phone before writing down his name.  It was possible that he had sent the picture to the real owner of the notebook, and had pretended to kill just because he knew Gevanni was watching…

I scanned the image on the monitor.  Mikami was sitting alone in the middle of the bench, but his lips were indeed moving, not enough to be noticeable to anyone who wasn’t looking right at them.  “Yeah, probably.”

“Do you know what he’s saying?”

I shot him an incredulous look.  “Can’t you read lips, Mr. Special Agent?”

He blushed.  “English, Russian, and Arabic ones, yes.  I know enough Japanese to get by, but not enough to read lips from that distance with that level of movement.”

I rolled my eyes.  “Defender of the American people, everyone.  Okay, can we rewind the feed a little…? ‘Shinigami…is it…you.’”

“He’s talking to the Shinigami!” Rester gasped. 

Without turning around to look, I sensed Akito look up from his new Agatha Christie novel and shift in discomfort.  Though his mind was rational and scientific by nature, he harbored an intense fear of the paranormal.  He had accidentally overheard Rester mention Shinigami during a case review, and Near had given him a crash course on them at his request.  As a result, he’d been having nightmares every night since; even after crawling into my bed, it took hours for him to calm down long enough to go back to sleep.  Yet another reason why this case had to end as quickly as possible.

Rester’s paternal instincts had perked up, too.  “Hey, Ryuzaki,” he said in a cheery voice. “Did Santa leave that book for you last night?”

“St. Nicolas died in the fourth century, Agent Rester,” Akito said in a flat voice. 

So edified, Rester gave me an appalled look.  “What the heck are you teaching this kid, Watson? Let him have a childhood, why don’t you?”

“It’s not good for Mama to lie,” Akito piped up from the corner.

“You’re darn right, it’s not,” I agreed.  “And I didn’t teach him anything, he found out by – wait, Mikami’s saying something else.”  I spent a few moments scrutinizing the screen.  “‘That…Shinigami…he hasn’t shown up…since he gave me that notebook.’”

Rester nodded.  “That’s exactly what we were waiting for.  No Shinigami means no one’s watching the notebook.”  He turned to Near, who was absorbed in his new Lego set.  “Near, we should have Gevanni swap out the notebook as soon as possible.  We can’t risk any more lives.”

Near didn’t even look up.  “Very well.  Gevanni, the next time Mikami goes to the gym, break into his locker and take as many pictures of as much of the notebook as you can.  We want an exactly identical copy, or else we’ll give ourselves away.  Once the copy is complete, you’ll swap the notebooks in his locker.”

“Understood,” Gevanni’s voice fizzled over the line.

I frowned.  “Hold on, Gevanni.  Has Mikami ever talked to himself before like this?”

“Not that I’ve seen.  It’s not inherently unusual though, is it? Everyone talks to themselves.”

“A man like Mikami doesn’t just start a new habit out of nowhere.”  According to Gevanni’s surveillance notes, Mikami had a cast-iron routine, with zero deviation from week to week.  He went to the same places at the same times, ate the same food on the same days of the week (stir-fry on Tuesday, ramen on Thursday, and so on), and even took his toilet breaks around the same time every day.  I was no psychologist, but that level of methodical was not so much habit as OCD.  And now, talking to himself out of nowhere, saying exactly what we needed to hear…it was all a little too convenient for my taste.

“Near,” I went on, “I think Mikami’s expecting us to take the notebook.  Kira probably tipped him off, and the fact that he hasn’t changed his routine means that he doesn’t care if it’s taken or not.  Either the notebook he’s using is a fake, or Kira has another henchman set up.”

“I agree,” Near replied.  “Most likely, both are true.  However, inaction gets us no further along in our investigation, and by playing Kira’s game, we may be able to glean some information he wanted to keep hidden from us.  At this time, it’s still in our best interest to take the notebook, fake or not.”  He spoke into the microphone again.   “Gevanni, carry out the plan as I just said, but keep an eye out for a second notebook in Mikami’s possession.”

“Understood.”

_I don’t like this…_

-

-January 26th, 2010-

Between waiting for the days Mikami went to the gym, making sure the locker room was empty, and constructing the replica, it took another month before we got our hands on the Death Note.  Or rather, the notebook.  The SPK couldn’t say anything for certain, since they didn’t have the real thing as a point of reference.  I, however, had held Higuchi’s notebook in my hands, felt the evil power it contained.  When I picked up this notebook, I felt only the overwhelming sense that I had been duped.  Instinctively, I knew that this was just an ordinary book; Mikami had been carrying around a fake. 

Near, of course, needed more than woman’s intuition to make conclusions, but he got his proof soon enough.  The killing of criminals continued, and the fact that Gevanni had not seen evidence of a second notebook meant that Kira had moved on to another patsy while Mikami was distracting us.  It couldn’t have been Light himself – Aizawa, now regularly passing along information to Near, confirmed that he was never left alone for even a moment, and so couldn’t use the notebook in their possession without anyone noticing.  However, Aizawa also said that during their secret meetings, which were bugged but had no cameras, Light and Takada were passing secret notes to each other.  That, combined with Kira’s continued activity, pointed to Takada as Kira Number Five.

Sensing that he was rapidly running out of options, and knowing that Aizawa and Mogi were tightening the circle around them, Light called Near and demanded a direct, in-person exchange of information, or else they would end their working relationship right there.  My heart plummeted when I heard this.  Here was Light’s last plan of action, then.  He would get all of us – Near, the SPK, the Taskforce, myself – in one place, and then kill everyone.  To everyone’s shock, Near agreed, setting the time for 13:00 on January 28th and the place for the Yellow Box Warehouse on Daikoku Wharf – a place that he had purchased especially for the occasion, and a place that had only one exit.  In other words, it was a rat trap.  If I was going to escape it, then I’d need to put Plan B into action much sooner than I’d anticipated.  So much for my timeline.

While Near had Lidner pass along the details of the meeting to Mello (nothing escaped him, apparently), I excused myself and went to the room I’d set up for Abigail, who had joined us at the beginning of December.  After making sure Akito was out of the room and out of earshot, I sat down next to Abigail on the bed and gave her my prepared speech. 

“You know that I’ve been working on a very dangerous case, right? Well, I think – I _know_ , whatever happens, that it’s all going to end on Thursday.  You and Ryuzaki are staying here, and the SPK and I are going to confront our suspect directly.  Near says he has a plan to get us all out of there, but if something goes wrong…if you don’t hear from me by midnight that night, assume I’m not coming back.  Get my son out of here, and take him to Wammy’s House.  There’s a box in my safe with everything you need to get away and start a new life.  And…and thank you, Abigail.  For everything you’ve done.”

She nodded, white-faced.  “I understand.  But…but why the House? I thought you only wanted that as a last resort.”

I looked away, taking a moment to gather my thoughts.  “I know you had a very good experience there, Abigail, but I also know that the House is split into two parts.  If Ryuzaki goes to live here, then he’ll be put into the other part, the school.  For a long time…for a long time I thought that that would be the worst possible scenario.  I thought he’d lose his mind, or…or worse.  But I had a talk with a graduate recently, and I realized that my fears were pretty groundless.  He’d do well there.”

And there was something else, too.  I’d thought the solitude and battlefield-mentality of the House had destroyed Near’s emotional stability, but that had not been the case.  He had thrived under those conditions; Akito, too, learned best under the rigid and all-consuming conditions he set for himself.  If Near hadn’t needed me there, then perhaps Akito wouldn’t, either.

And if Akito didn’t need me, then I could face my fate without guilt.  No longer would I have to worry about leaving my son behind, for the jail cell or the grave.  He was already far ahead of me, almost beyond my reach.  Whatever happened in these next few days, he would be okay.  I knew he would.

-

Close to ten o’clock that night, I got a call from an unlisted number on my cell phone.  Wary, but remembering that L would call the same way in those early days, I excused myself out into the hallway and answered the call.  “Hello, Casey Watson speaking.”

For a moment, there was no answer, and when it came, it was in a low, ragged voice.  “It’s Yagami Light, isn’t it? He’s Kira?” It took me a minute to recognize the voice as Mello’s.  The few times I’d heard it, it had been either cocky or brimming with rage.  This was neither voice; this was the anguish and torment of someone who had been utterly defeated. 

“Yes, that’s right,” I said, too concerned to play the game with him as I had with Near.

“And Takada Kiyomi is his proxy, right?”

“We have no physical evidence, but we think so.”

“And you’re going to see them on Thursday.”

“Yes, yes.  Mello, what’s wrong? What happened?”

His laughter was bitter.  “I’ve figured it out, C.  I know everything that needs to happen now.”  He paused.  “Tell me the truth.  Are you absolutely certain that you’ll all be able to walk out of that warehouse alive, and that Kira will be captured?”

“…No.  I honestly don’t see how that could be possible.”  Yagami Light was on L’s playing field, far too smart for me.   I couldn’t anticipate his movements.  He had suggested the meeting, which meant he had a plan in place that he considered foolproof.  He had at least two proxies, possibly more.  And all we had was a fake notebook and a brace of guns.

“I see.”  He let out a deep, heavy sigh, the kind I’d expect a man three times his age to give.  “You know, C, I always admired you.  I mean, I thought you running away and giving up like that, especially when you were so close to the top, was a dumbass move, but still.  I’ve been thinking about it recently, and I realized that you’re a person who knows her limits.  Once you realize there’s something you can’t do, you switch gears and focus on the things you can.  I…I wish I had the strength to do that.”

The hairs on the back of my neck stood up.  “Mello,” I said in a quiet, tight voice, “what are you going to do?”

“Give the phone to Near, would you? I…I have something I need to say to him.”

“Mello –”

“Just do it!” he snapped, and a bit of the old fire came back.  Then he sighed again, and it was gone as quickly as it came.  “Please, C.  Let me talk to Near.  And…and look after that kid.  Make sure he grows up safe, oaky?”

“…Okay, I will.”

I went back inside and handed the phone to Near.  He pressed it to his ear and kept it there for about ten minutes.  He didn’t say a word the whole time, just listened to Mello talk.  At one point, though, something happened that frightened me more than Mello’s voice ever could.  For just a split second, Near’s emotionless mask was stripped away, revealing a deathly pallor and eyes wide with shock.  He was _afraid_.  I stepped forward to snap him out of it, but the look was gone in an instant, and Near was Near again.

When he disconnected the call and gave me back the phone, I asked him what Mello was going to do.  His face stayed in its usual expression, but I thought I caught a glimpse of that terror echoed in his dark eyes.

“Mello’s going to die,” he said simply.

-

-January 27th, 2010-

Less than sixteen hours later, Near’s grim prophecy came true. 

As Takada left the NHN station that night after finishing the evening news, a man in a red car had opened fire on her.  The bodyguards returned fire, while a bystander put Takada on his motorcycle and drove her out of range.  What followed, broadcasted on every station in the country, was a police chase and massive gun fight that ended with the death of the car’s driver – whom I recognized as Matt, Mello’s henchman who’d tied up Abigail that night.  That meant that the motorcycle driver could only be one person – a fact further cemented by the fact that he had given Takada’s bodyguards the slip, effectively kidnapping her. 

The police closed down the city and conducted a manhunt, but it wasn’t until early the next morning that they found their man – just a little too late.  Fifty miles outside the city, a commercial truck had caught fire while parked within an abandoned church building.  The engine had been off at the time, and there was no evidence of a crash; the fire could only have been the result of deliberate arson, perhaps a suicide.  By the time emergency rescuers were able to contain the flames, the two people inside – the driver and the person in the cargo bay – had burned to cinders.  One set of remains was positively identified was Takada Kiyomi.  The other’s had no DNA record, but most likely were those of a white male in his twenties. 

It was clear what had happened here.  Light had had Takada kill Mello using some scrap of the Death Note concealed on her person, and then, knowing that the police were closing in and that Takada would be unable to explain herself, he had killed her himself.  Most likely, he had specified that she would burn to death in order to destroy all evidence she had with her.  Yet another pointless death.

Rester and Lidner were still at the scene, and Gevanni was still tailing Mikami, so I broke the news to Near alone.  He said nothing, but hunched further over and bowed his head.  He looked in that moment even younger and smaller than he already was.  Coming around to the front of him, I saw a look of pure bewilderment creasing his face, reminiscent of the look he’d had when I first found him on the House’s doorstep – lost, confused, and completely alone with his whole world crashing down around him. 

The House rankings were serious business, I remembered.  The biggest competition besides L himself were the people immediately in front of and behind you.  Mello had been in second place, and had grown obsessed with the idea of battling Near for supremacy.  Perhaps he hadn’t been the only one.

I sat down next to him and rubbed his back gently.  He didn’t flinch or try to shake me off.  “I’m sorry,” I said in a quiet voice.  “I know he meant a lot to you.”

Near lifted his head and turned to look at me.  There was no sadness on his face, only shock.  “I’ve outlived Mello.  I’ve outlived L.  I’ve played this game for my entire life, and now I’ve won it.”  His face seemed to collapse in upon itself as he looked away again, and this time, I saw a bit of redness in his eyes.  “I don’t…I don’t know what to do now.”  His shoulders started shaking. 

I shifted position to wrap him in a hug.  “I’ll tell you what you’re going to do – you’re going to keep doing the same thing you’ve always done.  L and Mello aren’t here anymore, but that doesn’t mean the fight’s over.  There’s still one more person you need to beat, right?”

After a moment of thought, he nodded.  “Kira.”  The word was hefty with suppressed emotion.

I nodded.  “You’re going to beat him, Near.  And I’m going to help you do it.”

He placed one hand on top of mine.  It felt cold.  “Yes, please do.”

-

There was one good thing to come out of all of this.  That night, Gevanni abandoned his post and burst into the hotel room, a paper bag tucked under one arm.  In response to our questions, he pulled something out of the bag and tossed it onto the coffee table.  It was a black notebook with odd white symbols etched into the cover.  Gevanni then opened it to a marked page and showed us a single entry: a familiar name, with a time and method of death.  As I looked at it, a shudder ran through me, and every hair on my body stood on end.  This was the real thing, all right.  This was the Death Note.

“Mikami went back to the bank today,” Gevanni said, breathless with exultation.  “He just went yesterday, and he never breaks his habits, so something was definitely off.  He asked to go back to his safety deposit box, and he looked around all nervous.  For the first time, he was concerned about being followed.  But then, when he left, he looked totally relaxed, almost relieved.  And then, five minutes later, I saw the report on Takada.”

“So it was him!” I said.  “He went to get his real notebook so he could kill her!”

Gevanni nodded.  “I thought so, too.  I was able to make a copy of the key and get into the box, and…well, there it is.”  He gestured at the notebook.

“And no Shinigami followed you?” Near asked, quite himself again. 

“I didn’t see anything.  He was telling the truth about that, at least.”

Near nodded.  “Well done, Gevanni.  Your quick thinking might have just saved all our lives.”

He explained to us the plan he and Mello had made.  I had to admit, it was a good idea – provided that this really was the notebook.  It wasn’t unthinkable that this was yet another ruse to throw us off.  The only way to know for sure would be to test the notebook…but there was Takada’s name, right at the top of the page.  No other criminal’s name had been written down in it, so it didn’t make sense that Mikami would fake Takada’s entry by itself.  Yes, the notebook had to be real.

And if that was the case…

I waited silently until the team split up, the SPK to their beds and Near to his room of monitors.   And then, when I was entirely sure that I was alone, I opened the notebook and ripped out a single page, which I folded and stuffed into my pocket.  Above the fabric of my trousers, I could feel the paper trembling like a living thing, waiting to use its power.

-

That night, I had a nightmare.  I’d had a nightmare almost every night since _it_ happened, but this one was different.  L and I were on the swing set at Wammy’s House, full grown now.  I turned to say something to him, but stopped when I saw the look on his face.  He was neither dead nor dying, but it was clear to see that he was in incredible pain.

“Chie,” he whispered in an anguished voice, “don’t you remember what I said on the video?”

“Of course I do.  You said I had to keep living.”

He shook his head.  “I said a world without you cannot be allowed to exist.  And there are all sorts of ways a person can be erased from the world.”

The picture winked out of existence, and I found myself lying in my hotel bed, the sheets flung wildly about and tears streaming down my face.  I wiped my eyes impatiently and looked at the clock – three in the morning.  Then I heard a soft sound coming from the doorway, and I looked up to see Akito, dressed in his blue pajamas with the sheep pattern, clinging to the doorway and looking at me with wide eyes.

I gave him a shaky smile.  “Sorry, sweetie, was I making noise? It’s fine, I just had a bad dream.  Go back to sleep, okay?”

He said nothing.  After a minute or so of indecision, he pattered over to the side of my bed, grabbed my wrist, and tugged on it incessantly.  He wanted me to follow him.  I climbed out of bed and let him lead me across our suite to his bedroom.  He let go of my hand and got into bed himself, not in the center but as far over on the right as he could without being in danger of falling off.  Then he looked at me, then the empty space on the bed, and back to me.

I understood.  I lay down in his bed and let him snuggle up against me.  He was asleep in seconds, but I stayed up for a long time, listening to his little heartbeat and feeling his warmth permeate my hollow chest.


	35. 5.7: The Final Problem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death Note (c) 2003 Ohba Tsugumi and Obata Takeshi. Another Note: The Los Angeles BB Murder Cases (c) 2006 Nisio Isin. All rights reserved.

**Chapter 7: The Final Problem**

**-** January 28th, 2010 **-**

Near and the SPK left before I did.  I wanted to spend as much time as I could with my son, before it was too late.  We read and played games together, and I gave him all sorts of test questions which he answered eagerly and without hesitation.  He really was a smart kid.  He would go far, and he would be okay.

At last, though, I couldn’t put off my leaving any longer.  I hugged my son tightly and told him I loved him, and heard him say he loved me back.  When he wasn’t looking, I mouthed _Remember your promise_ to Abigail, who nodded grimly.  I took the letter I’d written the night before, addressed to Akito and explaining everything, and put it in my safe, on top of the documents the two of them would use to escape.  Then, after checking my pocket for an entirely different sort of paper, I closed the door and separated from my son for what I was sure would be the last time.

I made it to the warehouse with twenty minutes to spare.  There was only one car out front, and I recognized it as Mogi’s.  For the past month, he and Misa had been under Near’s surveillance.  The fact that he was out and about now meant that he had thrown his lot in with us, and that the Taskforce was not here yet.  I took my last breath of fresh air and stepped inside the warehouse. 

There was light filtering in between the blades of a rotating fan up near the second level, so I could see everything with ease.  The warehouse held no cargo or stored items of any sort, leaving a wide, empty space for us to hold our last stand.  There were four people standing in the center of the floor – Rester, Gevanni, Lidner, and Mogi.  I went over to join them and greeted them with grim nods, which they returned.  Here was my contingent, the brothers- and sister-in-arms who would share my fate, whatever it might be.  And there was my commanding officer, crouched on the ground and playing with some custom-order finger puppets.  He looked up at my approach – or rather, his mask did.

I stared at it with my mouth half open, then took a few deep breaths and scowled at him.  “Near, if we survive this, you’re grounded.”

“Did I get the face right, then?” Near asked, his voice muffled behind the mask.  “I think I may have seen him with you once, but I was never sure if he really was L or not.  Your reaction just confirmed it.”

Well, the face wasn’t _wrong_ , exactly – the features and hairline were immediately recognizable as L’s.  Still, the eyes were too wide and the mouth too misshapen, making the face vaguely reminiscent of a rotting fish.  It was grotesque and borderline obscene, especially given the person who was wearing it.  For all his razor-sharp intellect and his finely-tuned deductive skills, Near was light-years behind L.  It was all I could do not to tear the mask from his face and stomp it into the dirt.

His words, though, gave me pause.  _Had_ Near ever seen L’s face? Now that I thought of it, L had come with me to the nursery once.  He didn’t stay long, uncomfortable as he was around even very young strangers, but he had a sort of staring contest with baby Nate and even held him for a few minutes, gripping his torso beneath the arms and looking nonplussed.  As we’d left, he’d said there was something very interesting about the way that baby looked at him.

“Sit next to me for a second,” Near was saying now, gesturing to the stretch of dirty floor beside him.  “I want you to see my puppets.”

I knelt down beside him and took a look.  There were fifteen in all, each a perfect likeness of the main players: the SPK members, the Taskforce, Near, Mello, Misa, Takeda, Mikami, myself, and finally L.  There was also one last one, a sneering freckled boy wearing a black eye-mask and a shirt with “Kira” written on it.  The SPK and Taskforce had rather vapid and blank expressions carved into their faces, but L, Misa, and Takeda had the same dead-fish look, Mikami was leering like a cartoon villain, and my likeness wore a too-wide, too-creepy smile.  Was this really how Near saw us?

“Cute,” I said simply, not sure what else I should say.

Near placed the L puppet on his right index finger, lifted it up to my face, and tapped the puppet’s face against my cheek.  “Mwah.”

I slapped his arm away.  “You’re _super_ grounded.”  Near shrugged and went back to his play.

At one o’ clock on the dot, the single door in and out of the warehouse opened with a groan.  Four figures stood in the doorway, the light from the afternoon sun shining behind them and darkening their features.  Then they stepped inside and closed the door, and we saw them clearly: Aizawa, Matsuda, Ide, and finally Light.  They crossed the room, their footsteps echoing loudly, each with a look of determination on their faces.  Light, in particular, looked grave, but there was an odd, miniscule twitch to his mouth that told me he was trying to hold back a grin – or a smirk.

And then I saw the fifth figure walking behind him, and it took everything I possessed to keep my face set – Light could not know that I had seen.  Beside me, the others stiffened, and I knew they had seen it, too.

It was as tall as Rem had been, but that was where the resemblance ended.  Its body was thin and black, and rather than bones, it seemed to be made of some sinewy, feathery substance.  Its hair shot up in black spikes, and a single silvery earring hung from one ear.  Its head and neck were a pasty white reminiscent of a corpse, and connected to the torso in such a way that I got the sense that the creature was wearing a fake head that had been sewn on to its body, like some real-life Frankenstein’s monster.  A sort of belt, complete with a death’s-head buckle, was fastened about its skinny waist, from which hung a black book in a wiry sling – a Death Note of its own.  Most frightening of all was its face.  Its lips were black and shriveled, and could not close all the way, so that the sharp white fangs were visible even from a distance.  Wide, bulging yellow eyes gleamed out uncannily, boring threw me like an x-ray.  It was chuckling quietly to itself, the voice raspy as a death-rattle.

It was a Shinigami, all right.  That meant only one thing: the notebook we had all touched, and the slip of paper in my pocket, were the real things.  We were in no danger from Mikami, at least; now we had to pray that Light had no notebook of his own. 

They stopped about twenty feet away from us, eyeing us warily.  Their gazes rested the longest on Near, marveling at his apparent youth and the mask over his face.  When Light laid eyes on it, his scowl twisted into a look of distaste.  Evidently, he shared my opinion about the mask’s likeness, the idea of even that small similarity sickening me to the core.  Matsuda caught my eye and smiled uneasily.  I stared at him with all the emotion of a stone.  There was a slight bulge underneath Aizawa’s suit – he must have had the Taskforce’s Death Note tucked between his shirt and skin.  The terms of the meeting demanded that both parties bring their Death Notes, so that no one would be able to steal them in our absence – Near had ours stuffed into his own shirt.  The Shinigami parted its black lips and cackled, looking from face to face with obvious glee.

After what seemed like years, Aizawa spoke, confirming to the rest of the Taskforce that the masked boy was indeed Near.  Mogi started to second this, but Matsuda shouted over him, condemning Near for protecting himself by wearing a mask while the rest of them were defenseless.  In response, Near explained that the mask was simply insurance, in case everyone present had already had their names written in the notebook – in which case, only Kira and himself (as he was sure Kira had never seen his face) would be left alive, and there would be no one left to stop Kira from writing down Near’s name.  He then asked for thirty minutes to pass, to ensure that that was not the case.  Or so he said – the SPK and I knew that, in reality, he was waiting for Mikami (or X-Kira, as Near had designated him) to make his way over to the Yellow Box.

All of these words floated in and out of my ears almost without notice.  I couldn’t care less what anyone was saying, or what their justifications were.  All that mattered was that Yagami Light was right here, right in front of me.  His deadliest weapon, strapped to the chest of our mole, might as well have been a thousand miles away.  He was all but defenseless.  And everyone else was either listening to Near talk or watching Light for his reactions.  My hand was twitching and hovering just over the gun holstered into my belt.  If I drew it now, no one would be able react fast enough –

 _No_.  Simply killing him would have worked in a pinch, but now that I could see him in front of me, biting back laughter and oh-so-confident that he had already won, it would no longer be enough.  I had formed Plan B thinking that I would be the last line of defense against Kira, but Near had proven himself competent, and he had formed his own plan that would not only defeat Kira – it would humiliate him beyond any hope of retaining even the smallest scrap of dignity.  Now I could beat Light at his own game.  Now I could watch true despair, the despair _I_ had felt for so long, mar his perfect features as the life faded from his eyes, knowing with his last thought that I was the one who had brought him so low.  Perhaps, seeing that, I could feel a little joy again for one last time.

So focused was I on this fantasy that half an hour passed within a single heartbeat, and I did not resurface into reality until I heard a rusty creaking sound.  As one, we all turned toward the door, which had slid open about an inch.  Between the gap, I could plainly see a wide, almost manic-looking eye shifting its gaze from face to face.  When it met my own eyes, I raised an eyebrow and nodded in a “well-go-ahead-already” sort of gesture.  The eye blinked, then withdrew.  A moment later, I heard the unmistakable scratching of pen on paper, accompanied by a frenzied muttering.  “Delete…delete…delete…”

Near, whose mask lay discarded on the ground in front of him, broke out into one of his creepy grins.  “It seems X-Kira has arrived.”

A split second of shocked silence, and then panic.  The Taskforce drew their guns and pointed them at the door, only prevented from firing by Near’s authoritative assertions that no one would die.  Everyone was sweating rivers and gasping wildly with instinctual terror.  Matsuda was screaming.  Even the SPK, who knew the notebook was fake, were shying like spooked horses, their terrified brains realizing the possibility that Mikami having another notebook.  The Shinigami cackled, one clawed hand covering its half-open maw.  Only Light and I stood silent.  Whether or not Mikami was using Gevanni’s fake was completely irrelevant to me; I had woken up this morning fully expecting to die today, and one method was as good as another. 

What truly mattered was Light’s reaction, and so while everyone else watched the door, I watched Light.  The twist in his lip had deepened, his mouth twitching into a smile and his eyes as manic as that of his accomplice.  Every so often, the lips would part ever so slightly, and a snort or giggle would issue between them before Light managed to clamp them shut again.  A generous person would say that fear had made him hysteric.  A person with common sense would say that he was laughing.  As the seconds ticked by and Near continued to talk, calming the Taskforce with his claim that the notebook (that is, he clarified, the notebook Mikami had kept at home and been using in public) had been switched, that near-laugh grew stronger and stronger, till I could see that it was taking everything Light had not to dissolve into mirth. 

He knew he would win, then.  Was it because he had another trick that hadn’t occurred to Near up his sleeve, or had the thought of Near finding out about the safety deposit box really not occurred to him? No, this was Yagami Light – he must have had a back-up plan.  Well, if I was going down, he would go down with me.  I drew my own weapon and leveled it at his chest, ready to squeeze the trigger the second I felt the first spasm in my chest.  No one noticed, so consumed were they with their own emotions.

It seemed as though those few seconds lasted for centuries, but at long last, the scratchings and the mutterings faded, replaced with ragged breathing, as though the one outside had just undergone some great physical exertion.  It seemed that Mikami had finished writing all our names – all of us but Light, I was sure.  We waited, barely daring to breathe our “last” breaths, for the door to open.

After another few seconds with no change, Light took a calming breath and called out in a damnably steady voice.  “You, there.  Outside the door.  Have you finished writing down the names?”

A long pause.  “Yes,” Mikami breathed, his voice low and reverent.

A shudder ran through Light – one that could either be of horror or glee – and he took another breath to compose himself.  “Mikami Teru, isn’t it? Kira’s acolyte, in charge of carrying out the killings? Stop hiding and come inside.  There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

Almost before he had finished speaking, the door creaked open fully, rattling on its hinges slightly from the force.  Mikami stumbled over the threshold, a look of pure rapture lighting up his face.  A black notebook was tucked under one arm.

Mikami’s eyes fell on Light, and the enraptured expression went up a notch, as though he were a pilgrim kneeling before a holy relic.  “Thy will be done, O God,” he murmured, trembling with adoration.

 _There_! There was the proof for which L so desperately fought and died – a confirmed Death Note user bowing to the whim of Yagami Light! That alone would be enough to warrant confinement.  Hell, it was practically a confession, and the fact that Light neither protested nor changed his cool smile only cemented it.  A smile of my own spread across my face – a real one, the first I’d had since…I don’t know when.  _L, we’ve done it at last!_

“Whose name did you write first?” Light asked Mikami, the very picture of serenity.

Mikami’s manic gaze turned to me, and he pointed a shaking finger at my chest, his malicious leer reminiscent of B’s.  Surprise, surprise.  “You!” he hissed.  “Hasegawa Chie!”

So he did have the Eyes.  Two little words, buried with my love, bounced around the walls of the warehouse, exultant in their resurrection.  I smiled and bowed my head at Mikami, as though he were nothing more than a friend of a friend introduced to me at a mixer. 

Light’s smile widened fractionally as he drank in the name that had so long eluded him.  “And how many seconds have passed since you wrote it?”

Mikami shoved his sleeve up his arm and looked at his watch, his grin stretching still further.  “Thirty-five seconds…thirty-six…thirty-seven…”

I listened to him count down what could have been the rest of my life, feeling oddly calm.  A normal person ought to be panicking right now, but if I felt anything, it was only a vague sense of impatience.  If I was going to die, I wished it would hurry up and happen already.  Hadn’t I waited long enough? All I needed to do to say that I lived without regrets was shoot Light, and I could do that up until my last second.  I cocked my pistol and moved it up to aim right between Light’s eyes, ready for my heart to fail.

So close to “victory,” he couldn’t help but break out in a grin dripping malice.  “Hasegawa Chie,” he echoed, tasting the words like a fine wine.  “Looks like I win.”  His eyes gleamed red as blood.

I matched his smile.  “Looks like it.”

“ _Forty_!”

…

…

…Nothing.  No pain in my chest, no flash of light, no creeping coldness in my limbs.  I was still eking out a pointless existence – as were the others.  Evidently, Mikami had taken the notebook from his safe deposit box without checking to see if it was a fake or not.  My impatience turned to disappointment, which was alleviated only by the look of utter dumbfoundedness spreading across Light’s face. 

My smile crooked into a smirk.  “What’s wrong, Kira? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”  He could only gape vapidly at me.

Around us, the Taskforce and SPK were slowly sinking back into their usual state of bewilderment.  “We’re…not dead,” Matsuda said, the vestiges of his terror driving him to point out the obvious.

Near frowned, looking irritated.  “Didn’t I already say you weren’t going to die?”

Light’s crony, meanwhile, looked just as thunderstruck as his master.  “B-But…but h-how…why won’t they die?!” He turned to Light, begging for mercy.  “G-God, I don’t understand! I did everything you bade of me!”

The younger man turned a shade paler and shot Mikami a look of pure hatred – his confidence was no longer so strong that he could allow someone to spew damning evidence.  _Gotcha_.

At Near’s command, Rester and Gevanni charged forward and seized a screaming Mikami.  The fake notebook fell to the floor, and I crossed over to retrieve it, my gun still pointed at Light.  Then I tossed the notebook to Near, who showed the group the page on which Mikami had just been writing.  My name was in the top left-hand corner, the characters written large and messy in Mikami’s excitement.  Next came Near’s name in unsteady Roman letters, followed by those of the three SPK members.  The four surviving Taskforce members finished the set. 

“We seem to be missing something,” I observed, my voice sharp and unforgiving as a blade.  “Why d’you suppose Mikami didn’t write your name, Light- _kun_? And what did you mean, ‘looks like I win’? Go on, let’s hear you crawl out of this one.”

He continued to gape at me, like he had suddenly gone brain dead.  Then something snapped inside him, and he shrieked his way back to life.  “It’s a trap! This whole thing was set up to frame me! Isn’t it odd that no one died after their names were written down? That proves it’s a trap!” His desperate screams echoed strangely in the empty warehouse. 

The Taskforce – the four men who’d trusted and believed in him for so long – gazed in horror as their paragon crashed and burned.  Finally, finally, they believed us.  How could they not, when the proof was before their very eyes? I took no delight in their validation; I could only feel the weight of Light’s betrayal of them, compounded atop my own.  Four more lives shattered by this monster – but no more after today.  

Near and I exchanged a look.  “Is this guy stupid?” Near asked.

I chuckled.  “He’s certainly gotten duller with age.  We should spell it out for him.”

So we did.  Near explained how Gevanni discovered the real notebook in the safety deposit box and managed to switch it without anyone noticing – or bothering to notice, as the case may be.  To prove it, he not only pulled out the real notebook form his shirt, but also spoke directly to the Shinigami, revealing that everyone in the SPK who had touched the notebook had been able to see it the entire time.  The Shinigami, who introduced itself as Ryuk, obviously felt no loyalty toward its master, for it carried on a conversation cheerily with Near and confirmed my theory that a single scrap of the Death Note held all its power.  In my pocket, I fancied the torn-up page tingled.

Then a funny look came into Near’s eyes, and he looked at Light with uncharacteristic fortitude.  “It was because I saw Takada’s name in this notebook that I was able to recognize the possibility of a fake.  And Takada’s name was in this notebook because of the actions of one person.  Everything that happens here today is because of Mello.  He knew that kidnapping Takada would result in his death, and he also knew – though I doubt he’d ever admit it – that there was no other way to catch you.  Both he and I are incapable of beating you – beating _L_ – on our own.” 

He placed the Near and Mello finger puppets on his index and middle finger, then lifted his hand so that the puppets rose up above L’s likeness.  His eyes flashed with rare emotion, one I could not quite read.  “But together, we can stand with L.  Together, we can _surpass_ L! And now, acting as one, we face the one who defeated L, and, using solid evidence, beat him at his own game!” Triumph and grief in equal measure racked his small frame.

He was right.  _L_ had been right.  Only by working together, as he and I had done, could Mello and Near reach their full potential.  One person could not hope to mimic another with full accuracy, but two might come close.  For one shining moment, the Program had succeeded, and all of the suffering the lot of us had gone through – A, B, X, Y, Z, Mello, me, even Near and L himself – had not been in vain.  L had had his perfect successor, and then Yagami Light and his little flock of murderers ripped him in two.  It was like L was being murdered a second time.  As long as I lived, and as long as my spirit endured in whatever came after, I would never forgive him.

Near fell silent, and we all turned to stare at Light, waiting for him to make his feeble excuses.  Mogi stepped forward, brandishing a pair of handcuffs, but Light scrambled out of his grasp and slammed himself against the wall, a wounded animal cornered before the pack.  His eyes darted from face to face, searching for mercy and finding none. 

And then he laughed.  I called it “laughter” for want of a better word, but there was no joy or humor in it.  It was hysteric, deranged, full of arrogance and condescension.  It sliced our ears like nails on a chalkboard, even seeming to lower the air temperature, so cold and evil was the sound.  Hearing it made bile rise to my throat and goosebumps prickle my skin.  Not even B had had a laugh that mad.  It was a demon’s laugh, worse even then the Shinigami Ryuk’s endless cackling.

Just as suddenly as the fit came on, it ground to a halt.  Light looked at each of us in turn, his grin malevolent.  “That’s right,” he said in a low, rasping voice.  “I am Kira.”

There it was.  There was the confession.  There was my justification.  I would have pulled the trigger right then and there, but the nerves in my fingers didn’t seem to be working.  It was as though that one little sentence had frozen every part of my body in place, until it was too cold and lifeless even to shiver.  The words bounced around the inside of my skull, branding me with searing pain at each point of contact.   I’d been waiting for this moment for so long that I couldn’t believe it had finally come.  He confessed.  He confessed.  He confessed. 

He was still talking, carrying himself straight and tall, a monument to his own perceived glory.  “Yes, I am Kira, and also the god of this new world.  Kira has become law in this world – _I_ have become justice, the only hope for mankind.”  His grin became mocking.  “So, what are you going to do? Kill me? Will that really make things better? Since Kira appeared six years ago, the global crime rate has dropped by seventy percent.  But it’s still not enough.  This world is rotting with too many people – _someone_ has to get rid of the scum of society.  When I got the notebook, I knew that killing people was a crime, but I also knew that I could do it – no, that I was the _only one_ who could do it! Who else could have gotten this far? Would they have kept going when things got tough? No! The only one who can create a new world is me – Kira!”

A heavy silence smothered the echoes of his manifesto.  He slumped slightly, breathing hard from the effort of unburdening himself.  The others were a tableau, too afraid to move for fear of what had to happen next.  If they all stayed still, I could practically hear them think, then this last moment of peace could go on.  My goddamned finger still wasn’t obeying my brain.

“No,” Near said at last, his voice too loud in the wake of the silence.  He looked at Light with tepid dislike, as though he were a cockroach to be squashed.  “You’re no god.  You’re just a stupid murderer, and this notebook is the deadliest weapon of mass murder in the history of mankind. You yielded to the power of the Shinigami and the notebook, and you have confused yourself with a god.  In the end, you’re nothing more than a crazy serial killer – nothing more and nothing less.”

The look of loathing Light gave Near in return could have melted steel.  Once again, he glanced around at each of us, trying to find a way out.  Evidently, he liked what he saw, because he straightened up and began talking again, moving his arms with a theatrical flourish. 

“Here’s a thought,” he was saying.  “The notebook you have, Near, and the one Aizawa’s carrying – are they both real?”

The Taskforce and the SPK tensed, but Near raised an eyebrow and I bit back a laugh.  Of _course_ they were both real.  How else would Near have been able to talk to Ryuk, and the rest of us who touched the notebook be able to see him? Why had Light looked so frantic when Mikami’s notebook had ended up fake? And most importantly, if Light had a back-up plan in the works, why the hell would he broadcast it? No, he was simply stalling for time, waiting for the right moment for his last gambit.  I found it completely obvious, which was why when he lifted his wrist and released a hidden shelf in his wristwatch, I was expecting it. 

That was how he had managed to kill Higuchi with L right next to him, some distant part of my brain realized.  That was how he had managed to kill while under surveillance, and how he could continue acting as Kira right under the Taskforce’s collective noses.  He’d had a clipping of the notebook hidden on him the entire time, tucked inside of the one personal effect he would always be carrying with him, memory loss or not.  A clipping, the Shinigami had just confirmed, that had just as much potency as the whole book.

As usual, the solution hit me like a blow to the back of the head, and I was so overwhelmed that I could not even keep the gun raised, let alone fire it.  But someone else could – someone who, I just remembered from reading his personnel file at the very beginning of the investigation, was valued by the NPA not for his intellect or reasoning skills, but for his unparalleled power as a sharpshooter.  Almost in slow motion, I saw a sobbing Matsuda draw his gun and fire in the same movement.  Even with his arms shaking and his vision blinded by tears, his aim was true; the pen went flying out of Light’s hand, and crimson blood spurted out of his wrist, staining the clipping beyond use. 

Light screamed like a dying animal, clutching his ruined wrist.  “MATSUDA, YOU IDIOT! Who the hell do you think you are shooting at?! Don’t screw with me!!”

Matsuda – innocent, happy little Matsuda, who had understood Kira’s reasoning to some extent and had even called himself a supporter in recent days – glared at his former friend with the intensity of a nuclear explosion.  “What was it all for, then?!” he snarled.  “What about your dad?! What the hell did he die for?!”

Light blinked at him, uncomprehending.  “My dad…? You mean Yagami Soichiro?” Matsuda flinched, and his adversary grinned, grasping at straws.  “That’s right, Matsuda. In this world, all those earnest people like him who fight for justice – they always lose.  You want a world where people like that are made to be fools? I know you understand, so kill the others! Shoot them!” His face, once so handsome, gnarled in rage and agony.  It hardly looked human.

Matsuda was stunned into immobility.  “You led your own father to his death…and now he’s gone, you call him a fool?”

But that one second of inaction was all Light needed.  He raised his wounded arm again and began scribbling on the usable part of the clipping, his own blood serving as ink…

…and then he was thrown to the floor by the impact of ten bullets to the torso, his body jerking with each hit.  Five of them were from Matsuda, emptying his clip.  Five of them were from me, the trance of my petrification broken at last.

It was over.  Not even Matsuda could stand by Light now.  No one would condemn me.  No one could even stop me.  Rester and Gevanni were still restraining Mikami, and the Taskforce to a man had gotten a hold of Matsuda – fat lot of good it did them, he was out of bullets.  That left only Lidner and Near, and neither of them moved or spoke as I closed the distance between myself and the prostate body of my Moriarty.  Miraculously, he was still alive, gasping out of his ruined chest like a rusted steam whistle.  The universe had bequeathed me the last few minutes of his life, so I could dispose of them as I saw fit.  I stomped on his sunken chest, making him cry out in pain, and pointed the barrel right between his eyes.  One bullet left.  One was all I needed.

“Say it again,” I growled, shifting my whole weight to the foot under which Light was pinned.  “Say your name again.  Your real name.”

Even through the fog of pain, Light’s glare was no less potent.  He even managed to smile a little.  “K… _Kira_.”

I stomped hard on his chest, and he coughed up blood.  “Good.  Now go say it to L, you soulless monster!” A chorus of voices cried out in protest, but I paid them no mind.  My purpose was only a twitch away from being fulfilled, and then my family and friends could rest easy.  My finger tensed on the trigger –

 “ _Mama_ , _stop_!”

The world ground to a halt.  Even Light’s desperate breathing quieted.  Feeling like I was underwater, not moving the gun off its target, I turned my head in the direction of the noise, eyes wide with amazement.  Akito was here, standing in the threshold of the exit, his whole body trembling.  His own eyes, wide as golf balls, darted between Light’s face and mine.  Beyond him, outside the warehouse, Abigail stood wringing her hands.

“What are you doing here?” I blurted out stupidly.  The words sounded thick and muffled, like my ears were stuffed with cotton.  “You should be at the airport.  You should be safe.”

Akito’s eyes rested on the gun, and he shuddered anew.  “Abigail brought me here.  Abigail said we had to save you.”

I shot Abigail a scowl to match the one I’d given Light.  “You said you’d keep him safe! Damn you, you promised!”

She lifted her chin, meeting my gaze with both pallor and evenness.  “I did, and I’m keeping my promise.  Just not the one I made you.” 

I opened my mouth to demand her meaning, but my son cut me off in a high, tremulous voice.  “Mama, it’s okay.  I _am_ safe.  He can’t hurt me like that, see? He can’t hurt anyone anymore.”  His eyes glistened with unshed tears.  “S-So, please…please put the gun down, Mama.  Please don’t kill him.”

The pistol was trembling in my hand, so I moved to grip it with two.  “Listen to me,” I said slowly to my son.  “This, right here, is Kira.  He tried to kill me, and he _did_ kill your father.  If I don’t stop him –”

“You _did_ stop him!” Akito shouted, stomping his foot in frustration.  “Look at him, he can’t do a thing! If you kill him, then it won’t be justice, it’ll be revenge! That’s the same thing he did! Papa wouldn’t want you to turn into Kira, would he?” Overcome with emotion, he buried his face in his hands and wailed.

I stared at him, my face slack.  Then I looked down at the stunned monster beneath my foot –

No.  Not a monster.  Not a devil, and not a god.  Yagami Light was human.  His eyes were brown, not red, and they were looking up at me with pure terror.  There was a gun in his face.  For the first time, he was in real and present danger of death.  He had the same look on his face that Z had had when I’d pointed my gun at him, all those years ago.  He was a child.  He had no power over me, or anyone else.  Hasegawa Chie would not have taken such a life, criminal or not.  She would not have taken any life at all.

“Oh,” I heard myself say, my own voice sounding younger than I remembered.  “That’s what you meant.  I misunderstood you, L.”

Then I tossed the gun aside, where it clattered uselessly onto the floor.  The spell broken, Light renewed his struggles, but he only succeeded in deepening the pools forming beneath his broken body. 

“You’re human,” I said to him, still speaking in that little-girl voice.  “You’re just a pathetic human with a pathetic existence, no different from anyone else.  If you’d just waited a few more years, you could’ve worked with L and me, and then your life would’ve been worth something.  But you gave in to the notebook, and now you’re going to die having accomplished nothing.  The world will go back to the way it was.  People will forget about you.  You haven’t made your mark on anything – you’re just another failure.”

And the look on his face as I said this, the look of utter dejection sinking into him as tears mingled with blood, was all I’d ever wanted.

I stomped on him one last time for good measure, then turned around and walked away with my head held high.  The Taskforce and the SPK parted for me as I passed, but Akito let out a shout and ran into my waiting arms.  I pulled him close and let him warm me, the tears falling at last.  “I’m sorry, baby,” I whispered.  “I’m so, so sorry.  I promise, I’ll never do that to you again.”

“It’s okay, Mama,” he answered, barely coherent through his own sobs.  “I’m not mad.  I still love you, and Papa loves you, too.”  I tightened my hold on him and kissed his forehead.  We stayed like that for a long time, until Light destroyed my peace for the last time.

Realizing that I was not going to kill him, he writhed and rolled uselessly in his own blood, looking for some chance, any chance, that he could still win.  He cried out for Mikami, for Misa, for Takada, for anybody to write down our names.  It was pathetic and undignified and all too human.  Out of nowhere, I remembered that horrible day in the command center, when a teary Matsuda had told me that L had died peacefully, without making a sound.  _That_ was true justice, not some bullet.

Suddenly, Light stopped, and a bloodstained grin split his face.  His eyes had found the Shinigami, who had been quiet all this time.  “R-Ryuk…I-I can still entertain you.  The fun’s only j-just beginning.  So hurry up and write their names down! Kill them all right now, Ryuk!”

The Shinigami’s lips parted, revealing his sharp teeth.  “Yeah, okay,” it said simply, then removed its notebook from the sling at its belt.  Then it pulled out a pen and began to write.

Once again, the room erupted in chaos.  The SPK and the Taskforce emptied their guns, but not a single bullet hit the otherworldly creature – they all passed through him harmlessly, like he was merely air.  Akito looked around wildly, blind to the target.  “W-What’s happening, Mama?” he whimpered, pressing his face against me.

I stood still and calm, at last the master of my emotions.  There was only pure logic – L’s logic – left rocketing through my skull.  _This Shinigami has been with Kira from the beginning, but it has done nothing either for or against Kira all this time.  Judging by what Light said, its motive for handing off the notebook in the first place was boredom.  Even if the lot of us died, Light would be left here to drown in his own blood.  There’s no way out for him._

“It’s okay, Aki,” I whispered.  “Nothing will happen to us.”

The Shinigami stopped writing – after only enough time for one name’s worth had passed.  One bulbous eye caught my gaze, and the ever-present leer widened somewhat.  Cackling, he turned the notebook around to show us all what he had written.  Sure enough, it was only one name – three little Japanese characters, the ones missing from Mikami’s fake notebook.

I didn’t stay to watch.  I hefted Akito to a sturdier position and walked out the open door, pressing my son’s face against my shirt.  He didn’t need to see that.  Neither did I.

 _What a waste_ , I thought as the screams gurgled to a halt behind me.  _What a goddamned waste_.

-

It took two hours for the police to clear the scene.  I ought to have gone back to the hotel or to the airport or somewhere else very far away, but I stood rooted on the dock, watching everyone come and go and feeling nothing – no relief, no vindication, no sense of accomplishment after six years of work.  I was just tired.  I had neither the desire nor the ability to put down Akito, and he cried himself to sleep in my arms.

Hesitantly, Abigail told me about her other promise.  When he’d hired her, L had given her a long letter of instructions for every conceivable situation.  The last one had had a star drawn in next to it, indicating its high importance.  If ever I started to talk about the end, either of my own life or the Kira case, and if I was speaking and acting in a way unlike myself as I did so, then Abigail was to take our child, follow me, and try and make me better again.  Her employment was conditional upon promising that much.  So that was just what she did.

I listened quietly.  I thanked her for telling me, and for being so faithful to L.  I told her to take the money and documents I’d left her and start her new life anyway, as I would be raising my son myself from now on.  She hugged me around Akito and left with tears in her eyes.

After her came the SPK and the Taskforce.  I thanked the lot of them for their support and sacrifices up until now, and told them that L, Near, and I would have never been able to succeed without them.  The SPK I’d only known professionally for a few months, so they simply shook my free hand and dispersed.  The Taskforce, the men who had fought and bled and died with me for six years, lingered a little longer, unsure of what to say.  I motioned for hugs form each of them.  Both Aizawa and Ide blushed and protested, ending up doing some sort of gruff one-armed thing.  Mogi was a big teddy bear, and Matsuda ending up smearing various fluids all over my jacket.  Before they left for the station, Aizawa told me that they’d be meeting up at Chief Yagami’s favorite bar once all the paperwork was in, and invited me to join them.  I said I’d like that.

They piled into their cars, and Mogi and Rester together shoved Mikami into the back of a van.  He was as quiet and obedient as a tired child, his eyes blank and lifeless.  Poor sap must have had nothing left to live for – his god had not only betrayed him with words, but by proving himself mortal as well.  Whatever remained of his life would be spent in unspeakable agony.  Good thing there wasn’t much of it left.

“Convenient, isn’t it?” a voice murmured at my side.  I looked down with a start to see that Near had somehow come up and crouched next to me without my noticing.  Both the mask and the puppets were nowhere to be seen; he wanted a real conversation, just the two of us.

“What is?” I asked.

“That Mikami arrived at exactly the right place, at exactly the right time, saying exactly the right things, without ever having checked the notebook.  He’s a meticulous man, not the type to be swayed by emotion, no matter the situation.  He wasn’t acting like himself.  Almost like someone else was controlling him.”  He looked up at me with an unreadable look in his eye.

I shrugged.  “You made your whole plan assuming he’d act that way, right? I’d have thought you’d have no cause to complain.” 

“I’m not complaining.  Just curious.”  He fell silent for a moment, twisting a lock of hair between finger and thumb.  “I meant what I said in there.”

“Which part?”

“The part about being able to surpass L if I stood with Mello, but falling short when I was on my own.  I’m not a worthy successor, no matter what the rankings say.”

“You just caught Kira, Near.  The guy who couldn’t be caught.  Trust me, you’ll be fine.”

“Fine, yes.  Not what’s needed, though.”  For once, he looked uncertain.  “Technically, you are still ahead of me.  Whatever you might think, you would be more than capable of being the next L.”

“…Funny, L said the same thing to me himself once.”

“All the more proof, then.”

I smiled sadly.  “Maybe you’re right, but I don’t think it’s a matter of skill or potential anymore.  Back there – and for the past five years, actually – I’ve been on the cusp of doing something unforgivable, not just for L but for any sort of human.  Whatever claim I had is gone now.  I’ve lost something crucial that L needs.”

“Maybe, but I haven’t yet.  We could do it together.”

I mulled it over.  “Can I think about it?”

“Take whatever time you need.  It’ll take a while for the crime rate to pick up again, so we’re in no rush.”  He stood up and started shuffling away, but stopped and looked back over his shoulder.  “Thanks for everything, Chie.  You’ve done well.”  Spoken for the first time in his voice, my name sounded like a foreign word.

“You too, Nate.  I’m rooting for you all the way.”

Then he was gone, too, and after him went the officers and EMTs and coroners, until eventually I was left alone.  Well, not entirely alone – my son was still in my arms, sleeping peacefully.  I hadn’t become something to fear, then.  That was good.  I hoped this picture of me – the real me – would stay in his mind for all his life.

Shifting him to one arm, I fished the piece of notebook paper out of my pocket and unfolded it awkwardly with one hand.  In the dying light of the sun, the black ink stood out sharply, like the characters were floating.  Akito and Abigail, and all the others, had fought so hard to stop me from stooping to Kira’s level; they hadn’t known that I was already lost.

“Sorry I couldn’t keep my promise, L.”

I crumpled up the paper and tossed it into the ocean.  It changed nothing, but I felt like it was something I ought to do.  Then I looked up at the sun sinking beneath the waves, and I smiled.

“That breeze sure feels nice…”

-

END OF NOTE 5

_FINIS_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it! Thanks to everyone who read my story. I hope you've enjoyed it. I'd like to do some more with Akito, so I might be doing vignettes or shorter works in the future. Until then, take care!


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